


Broken Glass

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Animals, Brotherly Love, Cats, Christmas, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Germany, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidlock, M/M, Memories, Mycroft Feels, Poor Mycroft, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Science, Self-Medication, Sherlock is a Brat, Slow Burn, Teenlock, Vacation, cognitive behavioral therapy, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: After the events of Sherrinford, Mycroft is a mess, and his relationship with his brother is no better. However, an accident changes things.





	1. The accident

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magic1034](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magic1034/gifts), [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).

> I was prompted by my sibling in May? to write a deaging/regression fic for holmescest. So, with much delay, here it is. It will be cute, adorable, angsty in places, and there will be other feelings as I write the chapters. It will most definitely be a slow-burn.
> 
> If holmescest is not your thing, please turn back now! 
> 
> Enjoy :)

“Sir, you should really go home.”

Mycroft looks up from the files spread over his desk to blink dumbly at Anthea. The words on the document that he had been reading had ceased to make sense a long while ago; it might as well be written in Chinese for all he cared. No – wait, he can actually read _ hanzi _ (汉字); this is written in – ah forget it…

There is a flicker of concern in Anthea’s eyes.

“I am almost finished.” Mycroft finds himself automatically moving his lips to speak. It comes out hoarse. His throat feels dreadfully parched.

“With all due respect, sir – that is what you said approximately ten hours ago.”

Damn. Mycroft tilts his head to see the time on the corner of his desktop screen. 6:08 AM. Somehow, the hours had slipped by without him even noticing. His hand reaches up to stifle a yawn.

“I canceled your 8 o’clock with the PM. To be frank, sir – you are in no condition to be seen by anyone. Please go home.”

There is a strong emphasis on the last sentence. But Mycroft is reluctant to move. What is there waiting for him at home? If he follows the usual ritual – he would be drunk on whiskey in approximately an hour and a half from now. Then, he would stumble over to the shower and fall upon his bed. And if he has fortuitously drunk the optimal amount of alcohol, there would be no nightmares. Just thinking about it is enough to get his heart racing.

“Should I call your brother?”

“Oh, dear god – please… no.” Mycroft shakes his head firmly. He must really look grotesque if Anthea is resorting to such measures. “I will go.” He stands up – surprisingly shaky, before moving to collect his things.

Sherlock… He hasn’t seen his brother in well over a month. If Mycroft is honest with himself, it is because he is deliberately avoiding him. An overwhelming sense of shame and guilt hangs over his shoulders; it is so heavy and thick that Mycroft feels like he is asphyxiating at times. Sherrinford. The East Wind. Moriarty. How could he have failed so utterly? What use is genius if he couldn’t use it to protect his one and only? Sometimes he just wishes that Sherlock could have ended him there and then. Even this thought elicits guilt; how could he even dare to think about exiting this world by dropping such a guilt-laden burden at the feet of his brother?

Grabbing his umbrella, he goes out of Whitehall to meet his driver.

* * *

_ “Five minutes. It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us.” There is disbelief and fury radiating from his brother as he speaks through almost clenched teeth. Sherlock turns to face Dr. Watson, before focusing his attention back on Mycroft. The gun, originally pointed directly at Mycroft’s chest, is lowered and his brother turns away. “Well, not on my watch.” _

_ No, what are you doing! Mycroft wants to shout. At this point, he knows that his brother is not going to shoot him; he is not going to die for his failures today. That he will not have an appointment with Moriarty anytime soon to pummel his sorry arse in hell. _

_ “What are you doing?” The dreadful voice of their sister sounds alarmed. _

_ And Mycroft, for the first time since stepping foot into this room, is numbed with fear. _

_ Sherlock says solemnly. “A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered.” _

_ No. Sherlock. Please. Oh God. No. _

_ “I’m remembering the governor.” _

_ Sherlock! Mycroft watches helplessly as his brother presses the muzzle under his chin. No. What are you doing, brother mine? Point it at me! _

_ Calmly, Sherlock begins the countdown. “Ten…” _

_ Mycroft wants to go wrestle the weapon away from his brother, but he knows the chances of it misfiring are too great. Besides, he finds that his limbs are no longer under his control. _

_ His sister voices his sentiments. “No, no, Sherlock.” _

_ “Nine…” _

_ Brother. Please. Stop this madness. _

_ “Eight…” _

_ “You can’t!” Eurus cries out what Mycroft cannot. _

_ “Seven…” _

_ “You don’t know about Redbeard yet.” Eurus says with urgency, but Mycroft knows that Eurus has lost this round. His brother, the self-professed sociopath, is anything but. He will pick the lives of Mycroft and his best friend over a mystery. And yet… _

_ “Six…” _

_ “Sherlock…!” Eurus sounds desperately anxious. _

_ It will be Mycroft’s loss too. For instead of pointing the gun at Mycroft’s literal heart, Sherlock is now pointing it at his metaphorical one. Life is not worth living without you, dearest… _

_ “Five…” _

_ And then, it all goes dark… _

_ Mycroft reawakens in a cell. Eurus’ cell. There is no one here, besides himself. He feels drained. Tired. There is a simple table in the room. Four cylindrical legs and a flat rectangular surface. A box bearing his name sits on the surface wrapped like a present. With trepidation, Mycroft unties the festive looking ribbon and opens the box… _

* * *

Drenched in sweat, Mycroft wakes up. He is tachycardic; his heart is pounding uncomfortably against his chest. Hyperarousal. Sympathetic overdrive. Struggling to catch his breath, he sits up and rests his forehead against his palms. This shouldn’t be so difficult. At least this time the dream had ended before he had opened that damned box. He doesn’t need a psychiatrist to tell him that he has post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). He meets all the criteria in the _ Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5)_. Criterion A: exposure to a stressor. Certainly, watching helplessly as his beloved brother pointed that gun at himself with every intention of firing it – and Eurus’ stupid prank afterwards counted as traumatic exposures. That severed head had looked so similar to Sherlock’s – the inky curls and whatever distinguishable features that had been left after the bullet had gone through the unfortunate nameless victim. The note affixed to the blood-matted hair had been disgustingly brief.

_ Brother mine… don’t forget your souvenir! _

Mycroft had never felt so sick and devastated in his life. Because he had believed that it had been Sherlock’s head that Eurus had placed in the box. God. He had thrown up. And blacked out. Although in retrospect, if his brain had been functioning and had not been so clouded with sentiment, he would have seen at once that the head did not belong to Sherlock. But the mere suggestion was enough to send him reeling.

Ah, and Criterion C: avoidance of trauma-related stimuli. Mycroft has delegated all Eurus-related tasks to Anthea. Even his parents just talk to Anthea these days to arrange for their visits to Sherrinford. They haven’t forgiven him either for the deceit. And he has been avoiding his brother. Not only is it because he keeps picturing the head in the box to be Sherlock’s during the few occasions that he had actually seen his brother post-Sherrinford, but also, in this emotionally vulnerable state that he often finds himself in these days – he is afraid that he will give away his deepest and most scandalous secret that must remain buried at all cost.

He knows that he is a mess. He knows that he needs to seek out proper avenues of therapy rather than drinking himself to liver failure and death with expensive alcohol. As the goldfish say, it is easier said than done. It is another reason why he had been eschewing his brother’s company; Sherlock would have been able to suss out his sorry state in less than ten seconds. No doubt he would be delighted to reverse roles and give Mycroft the lecture on the misuse of substances. And he really ought to accept Anthea’s suggestion to take a long sabbatical from work. His work, once fascinating to him, is now just work… he goes through the motions like a robot, barely functioning. The lack of restful shut-eye is slowly killing him. Like Sherlock, he can work with minimal sleep, but he cannot live like this indefinitely. No one can.

* * *

“There has been an accident.”

Mycroft’s blood runs cold when he hears DI Lestrade on the other end of the line.

“Can you come?” The DI asks and then gives him an address.

Now, this is odd. Normally, they would ask him to show up to the hospital to serve as the power of attorney for his brother in regard to medical treatment, but not to the crime scene itself.

“Please?”

There is a strange tone in the DI’s voice, as if he is going to break down into hysterics at any given moment.

“What happened, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asks, completely perplexed.

“You will never believe me, Mr. Holmes. Just come. Please. He is asking for you.”

* * *

As it turns out, the crime scene is in Cambridge - a good two hours drive away - where Sherlock had gone to university all those years ago. The laboratory he walks into is filled with phenolic resin top benches and all the other accoutrements of a well-equipped biochemistry lab - including thernocyclers, incubators and haphazardly arranged electrophoresis equipment. But what doesn't belong in this space is a small familiar naked blur that rushes up to him and starts hugging his trouser-clad leg. 

“Sherlock, get back here!” An exasperated Dr. Watson, who sounds like he is about to reach the end of his tether, demands.

“Mycie!” The child looks up innocently at Mycroft with his iridescent blue-green eyes.

Good Lord. How on earth did this happen? Mycroft internally groans. Lifting his hand, he actually pinches himself. Okay, so this isn’t a dream either. And, this version of Sherlock must be somewhere between four to six years of age. They were difficult years where Mummy had struggled to get Sherlock into a state that was not starkers.

“Up! Up!” The boy demands insistently and Mycroft, with a deep indulgent sigh, bends down and picks him up. The curly haired child looks curiously at Mycroft and exclaims, “You are so tall!”

“I grew up, ‘Lock.” Mycroft explains patiently, while Dr. Watson walks over to him.

“Sorry about that, I tried to get him to keep his shirt on – at least.” The doctor sighs.

“So, what happened?” Mycroft inquires.

“To be honest, no one really knows.” It is DI Lestrade that replies. “We came here and found Sherlock literally drowning in his clothes in the storage room with some broken glass around him. We cleared up the glass in a jiffy, while your brother managed to shrug off all his clothing and started running and hollering around the place like a playground.”

Practicalities take over. Mycroft says, "The room, glass and Sherlock's clothes will need to be sampled. I can take these samples to an appropriate facility for testing." It is likely that his brother may have knocked something over in the room and gotten the substance on himself. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock pouts, crosses his arms and declares vehemently, “No clothes!”

Dr. Watson and the DI share an amused look and a long-suffering sigh, before turning back to Mycroft. It is clear that they had spent an exhaustive few hours, while Mycroft had travelled up to Cambridge, trying to wrangle Sherlock, who as a child is a different kind of menace altogether.

“I will provide you with some samples, Mr. Holmes. Unfortunately, the lead investigator of the lab was murdered a few days back, and her head technician has fled the country, so we have no leads as to what the chemical or chemicals that have affected your brother may be. Everyone else linked to this lab that we’ve questioned seems to have no clue about what may have happened to Sherlock. Of course, we asked as discreetly as possible.” DI Lestrade then asks with burning curiosity, “He was a wild handful as a child, wasn’t he?”

“A manageable handful.” Mycroft answers, not wanting to slander – suddenly feeling very protective of his little brother. He knows that Sherlock – the grownup version – would not want people to see him like this regardless of how close they are to him.

“It’s going to be tough, John.” The DI remarks. “With both his nibs and Rosie to look after.”

“I want Mycie!” Sherlock exclaims, clinging tightly around Mycroft’s neck.

“I guess I better take him.” Mycroft finds himself saying.

“You sure, Mycroft? You are the one with the busy job.” The doctor sounds skeptical. And Mycroft doesn’t blame him; after all, he had been the one actively avoiding his brother in the past few months.

Mycroft shakes his head and gives the doctor a tight-lipped smile. If things go to plan, he will have plenty of time to look after Sherlock. “He’s my brother. I will manage.”


	2. The first evening (or where Sherlock and Mycroft negotiate clothing)

“How old are you, ‘Lock?” Mycroft asks when they are safely situated in the car.

Sherlock, who had finally agreed to wrap his naked form in a plain white towel before they had left the laboratory, looks shrewdly at Mycroft. It uncannily resembles the look his adult self wears while making deductions. Somehow, it is endearingly adorable. He says, his voice tinged with sadness. “Mycie doesn’t know.”

It is a statement. Not a question.

“No, Mycie does not know. Which is why I am asking, little ‘Lock.” Mycroft figures lying is not the way to handle this. And he grins at his brother’s indignant and childish response.

“I am not little! I am four!” His brother energetically waves four fingers.

* * *

He had forgotten how inquisitive Sherlock is as a child. His brother fires questions away, wanting to know things such as the make of the car (Jaguar), where they are going (London) and why is the sun yellow (to which Mycroft explains that the sun is actually white and that it is the sky that changes how the sun’s light travels, causing the sun to look yellow). The mood does shift when Sherlock asks, “What are we doing when we get to London?”

And Mycroft mentions that they are going to the doctor. His little brother starts panicking about needles and looks so distraught that Mycroft regrets saying anything about physicians. At the end, Mycroft unbuckles Sherlock’s seatbelt (a booster seat would be needed for future excursions) and holds his brother in his lap, gently stroking his curly head. Sherlock quiets gradually. On a whim, Mycroft pulls up the towel to look at Sherlock’s left arm, where adult-Sherlock had track mark scars. The skin is unblemished. Untouched.

It’s strange. Seeing the man he loved as a child. Of course, Mycroft had seen Sherlock grow up from one, but that was through the lens of fraternal love. Abruptly, a deep sadness fills him. He has no information regarding the nature of this de-aging accident. He doesn’t know if Sherlock will be forced to live through his life again, if he would be stuck at the tender age of four forever, or if maybe he would return back to his usual self by tomorrow. 

Mycroft had gone to see the storage room himself (where the incident had happened) and there had been no clues aside from the broken glass from a flask that the DI had found before they had left. Even the glass fragments themselves bore no visible traces of residue. Damn. Maybe he should have agreed to allow Anthea to call his brother this morning. Sherlock would still probably be himself right now. Butterfly effect.

There is no use in dwelling on what-ifs. Especially with Mycroft’s line of work. He would just have to take this one day at a time. A thought strikes him. This would be a chance to right all the wrongs that had happened in his brother’s life. There would be no Eurus, no Redbeard and all the other unpleasant things that had happened to Sherlock. Maybe it is time to test the idea if fate can be altered. It is, really, the least he could do for Sherlock.

* * *

The physical exam had been benign; Sherlock appeared to be a healthy – albeit on the lower side of the percentiles for weight – four year-old child. His brother had stirred up such a fuss that Mycroft had to sit up on the examination table with Sherlock in his lap for him to be cooperative enough for Mycroft’s personal physician, Dr. Ahn, to do her work. Professional. Competent. A provider for many government officials and agents. She had listened, completely unfazed, when Mycroft told her the truth about Sherlock’s incident. The physician-patient privilege of confidentiality. But then again, Dr. Ahn had probably listened to many a strange tale in her office – considering her clientele.

“We will have to draw labs, of course. Got to make sure that there is no organ damage, toxic side-effects and to see if he needs any immunizations.” Dr. Ahn starts busying herself by gathering various tubes with different cap colours.

“Mycie!” Sherlock begins to cry after having sensed the inevitable, still wrapped tightly in his towel. “No needles.”

“Sh… ‘Lock. You told me you weren’t a little boy anymore, didn’t you?” Mycroft finds himself inanely saying.

“No, I am little!” Sherlock scrunches himself up – looking smaller than he already did.

Mycroft’s heart hurts as he uses a tissue to wipe at Sherlock’s tears and snot. God. He doesn’t want his brother to be subjected to this. The poking and prodding. But this is necessary. He resorts to bribery, taking advantage of child-Sherlock’s sweet tooth. “Be a brave boy for me, and we will go for ice cream afterwards, how does that sound – ‘Lock?”

His brother perks up, not even noticing Dr. Ahn palpate his arm to look for an appropriate vein. “Ice cream! Can it have cookies in it?”

“It can have cookies in it.” Mycroft agrees, just as Dr. Ahn deftly sticks the needle into his brother’s arm to draw up the blood into the tubes with the slyness of a mosquito.

Sherlock visibly winces, but doesn’t cry further. “WIll it be in a cone?”

“It can be in a large waffle cone, little brother.” Mycroft fondly strokes Sherlock’s curls. 

“And, we are done, big boy!” Dr. Ahn beams at Sherlock who scowls. 

His brother looks at the bandage affixed on his cubital fossa and offers it to Mycroft. “Kiss it!”

Mycroft hesitates and holds back a sigh before brushing his lips lightly against the bandaid. “There. All better.” He then helps Sherlock off the exam table. 

“I will call you if any of the results come back abnormal, Mr. Holmes. If you have any questions about your brother’s development, please do not hesitate to call me.”

“Sherlock, come back here!” Mycroft sighs despairingly when his brother drops the towel and bolts through the office door held open by Dr. Ahn into the waiting area.

* * *

“So, ‘Lock - what did we agree upon?” Mycroft asks solemnly as the car pulls up in front of an ice cream shop.

“No towel, no ice cream.” Sherlock replies with gravity. 

Mycroft bites his cheek to prevent himself from laughing at how serious his little brother is over ice cream. For good measure, Sherlock wraps the towel tighter around himself, determined to not allow it to slip off. Anthea had already dropped off a bunch of necessities – including appropriately sized clothes for his brother – back at his place, but Mycroft had decided that they might as well finish all their errands in one go, instead of heading back out after what would surely be an exhaustive series of negotiations involving clothing. Even treaties between certain antagonistic countries would be easier to navigate.

“Come on, Lockie, let’s get your ice cream.” Mycroft opens the door and helps his brother onto the curb. 

Sherlock grabs one of Mycroft’s fingers. They enter the store, where Sherlock is immediately drawn to the display of colourful tubs.

“So many!” Sherlock exclaims, his eyes excitedly darting to and fro. “Vanilla - boring! Ooh - purple! Lav-en... “ 

“Lavender.” Mycroft offers, “Minty, aromatic shrub - with blue-purple flowers, brother mine.”

Sherlock had already moved on. “Cheesecake. Tiger Stripes. Green Tea. Watermelon. Oh… Cookie! Cookie Monster!” His brother’s eyes fall upon a shockingly blue mixture with cookie bits in it. “Mycie! Cookie!”

“Tell the man what you want, ‘Lock.” Mycroft lifts his brother up from the ground.

“Big scoop! Cookie Monster!” Sherlock exclaims. 

“In a waffle cone.” Mycroft adds. He then proceeds to order a half a scoop of the watermelon in a cup for himself from the worker.

After Mycroft had paid, the two of them go outside to sit on the park benches. It is warm outside with the gentlest of autumn breezes. Sherlock eagerly devours his cone; the blue ice cream staining his lips, tongue and face. 

When was the last time he had ice cream with his brother? Or done something as mundane as this? Mycroft is aware that adult-Sherlock besides having a predilection for ginger nut cookies, enjoys cherries, pumpkin pie and egg tarts (both Portugese and Hong-Kong styles). But, he’s never seen Sherlock touch ice cream in his adulthood. Did Sherlock even have a favourite ice cream flavour? Damn. He may never find out.

As soon as Sherlock manages to eat his entire treat – Mycroft has no idea how he managed to put it away so quickly – his brother lets the towel hang loosely on his frame. 

“Oh no, you don’t – Sherlock… keep your towel – ”

“Mycie said no towel, no ice cream! And there’s no more ice cream!” Sherlock complains.

“Please. Lock - I don’t want to fight you on this.” Mycroft gives his brother a pleading look. How did Mummy handle this without going crazy? Oh wait. She didn’t. Sherlock spent the majority of two years of his life at Musgrave - running around naked. He then tries a new tactic, “Is there anything you are willing to wear - little brother?”

Sherlock begins to move his lips - as if to say ‘no’, but he abruptly changes his mind and says, “I want to wear what Mycie wears!”

Oh. Mycroft looks down. Shirt. Tie. Waistcoat. A bespoke suit from Savile Row. From a cost perspective, it would not be a good idea to buy Sherlock a wardrobe like his – more likely than not he is going to grow and do so quickly. But he finds himself enamoured with the idea of his little brother in Mycroftian attire. The pictures alone would be worth the price of several bespoke suits. And, if Sherlock ever returns to himself – absolutely priceless. Not _ if _ – Mycroft reprimands himself – but _ when _. He must have hope that his brother can return to his charming older self. He must.

* * *

Mycroft watches in amusement as Sherlock stalks out of the bathroom. His little arms are outstretched, fingers clawed; his back is bent slightly and his hips sway as if he has a long tail. His footsteps are deliberate and strange vocalizations emit from his throat. A dinosaur. Perhaps a theropod of some sort. Likely carnivorous. Little boys are bloodthirsty creatures after all. Miraculously, his brother is wearing pajamas with little dinosaurs embroidered on them - the only set out of the several that Anthea had brought that Sherlock had permitted to touch his skin. It’s certainly better than none at all. He muses, resignedly.

“Pick a book from the shelf, ‘Lock – and we can do a bit of reading – hm?” 

His brother prowls his way to the shelves, still a dinosaur. Anthea had brought over some books that Mycroft had shelved while Sherlock had been in the shower. Sherlock examines the offerings with his head slightly tilted, with great concentration. Mycroft thinks that he ought to take Sherlock to the Natural History Museum to see the dinosaurs; his brother, at this age, would love it. Finally, Sherlock picks a book and brings over his offering. _ The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe _ . Ah, the _ Chronicles of Narnia _ – _ C. S. Lewis _; they might have read this together as children – but Mycroft isn't quite sure. 

They take turns reading. Sherlock – understandably – struggles with some of the words, but Mycroft always stops and makes sure that Sherlock comprehends the vocabulary. They follow as Lucy, a young girl, explores a wardrobe and discovers a snowy wood at the back. Narnia. She meets a faun (a creature half goat, half man) and has tea with him. 

“Do you think your wardrobe goes somewhere, Mycie?” Sherlock asks after they finish the second chapter.

“I don’t know, Lockie. Maybe I need an adventurer to check it out for me.” 

“There might be monsters.” Sherlock shivers. “Like the ones under the bed!” 

“‘Lock…” Mycroft wants to say that there are no such things as monsters under the bed, or in the wardrobe, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gets off his comfortable bed and looks in the loo for a spray bottle to fill with water. Monster spray. When he returns, his brother is curled up on the bed, fast asleep. He sets the bottle on the nightstand. It should come in handy.

Damn. His brother can’t sleep here. With him. The nightmares cause Mycroft to thrash violently in his sleep, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt Sherlock. The guest bedroom then. He will sleep there. Leaning over Sherlock, Mycroft gently presses a kiss on his brother’s forehead, before carefully tucking him into the blankets. Grabbing a fresh set of blankets and a pillow as the bed isn't made up, Mycroft then switches off the light in his room and makes his way down the hall to sleep.


	3. Where Mrs. Hudson does not become Sherlock’s babysitter (or where Mycroft takes Sherlock to see the dinosaurs)

"Mycie was gone!" Blue-green eyes stare accusingly at him, illuminated by the flashlight feature of Mycroft's phone. Like a cat, Sherlock is lying on his belly on top of Mycroft's chest. A warm comforting bundle.

"I had to sleep, 'Lock." Mycroft blinks blearily at his little brother.

"But…" Sherlock looks distraught, his curls tangled in an endearing mess. "Mycie sleeps with me!" 

Mycroft sighs as he lets his unoccupied hand stroke his brother's hair. That was certainly true. Child-Sherlock had shared the bed with him for many years. Nightmares had been the excuse back then; however now – the nightmares now belonged to Mycroft and they are vivid and _ real_. And the reason why they can no longer cosleep. 

The truth then.

"Sherlock…" 

His brother's everchanging eyes fixate on him again. This time they betray concern at the sudden gravity of Mycroft's tone. 

"I have nightmares." He takes a breath. "Terrible ones. I kick. I punch. And, I sometimes scream. I… am going to see somebody for them. A psychologist. For therapy."

"Psy… cho… logist." Sherlock sounds out the unfamiliar word. "Is that like a paleontologist? But…" His brother wrinkles his forehead in thought. Mycroft finds it terribly cute. "For… nightmares."

"The mind and behaviors, brother mine. Nightmares are only a small part of the problem. It's… a long story."

"Mycie! I like stories! Tell! Tell!"

"Not today. Sherlock. I am… not ready to talk about it." Mycroft sighs deeply. He isn't sure if he will ever be able to talk about it. But then again, that is what the therapy is for. Then, he suppresses a sigh – he is not looking forward to this therapy whatsoever.

"Mycie…" His brother's eyes are heartbreakingly imploring.

"No, 'Lock." Mycroft replies firmly. He then caves a bit. "Give me some time. I promise I will tell you someday." When you are older. If ever.

"And… ther-a… py." Sherlock focuses on another unfamiliar word. "Is it like medicine? For the mind?"

"I hope so." It is one thing to read about it in the recommended clinical guidelines, but another thing to be a patient undergoing the recommendations. And part of him is skeptical despite the unequivocal scientific evidence; what could a psychologist do for a man with a mind like his? But as hard as it is to believe at times, even his brain works on the same chemistry – the same basic elements – as everyone else. And, he would never forgive himself if his condition, if he could call it that, harmed Sherlock in any way. It is time to take back control of his life.

"Can… I sleep in the same room…?" Sherlock asks tentatively.

"The next night…'Lock." Mycroft will tell Anthea to arrange for a child-sized bed to be placed in his room.

"Mycie!" Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around Mycroft (well at least as much as he could cover).

Mycroft can't help but to bend his neck to bestow a tender kiss on his brother's forehead. This version of his brother might be a naughty menace at times, but is ridiculously easy to love.

* * *

The next morning, Anthea shows up with more things, including more clothes for Sherlock and paperwork for Mycroft pertaining to his sabbatical. His brother had climbed on top of the dining table, growling and roaring – more adorable than frightening. A dragon, Mycroft deduces, judging by the vigorous gestures of his arms and wrists, and his attempts to pantomime breathing fire. Both Anthea and he wince in tandem when Sherlock swoops his head downward and starts ravaging the fried eggs, mushrooms, beans, sausages and toast on his plate with all the finesse of a wild animal. 

"The samples have been brought to the lab, sir." Anthea informs, "They will call us if they find anything useful. I took the liberty of making you an appointment to go see Dr. Farhad on Friday morning at eleven, so plan accordingly. There are a few things you could do remotely for the PM, but nothing urgent. The details are in this dossier." She slaps down a thin and mundane-looking brown folder on the table. "And, sir, if you need anything at all… Please don't hesitate to contact me. Even if you are officially not working."

Ah… Anthea. Always so proficient and loyal. Mycroft will miss seeing her on a day-to-day basis.

"I will see myself out, sir. Have a good day." Anthea nods and disappears, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. 

"Can you eat like a civilized human-being, brother mine?" Mycroft turns his attention to the beast savaging his breakfast. His tone is more fond than stern. 

"Rawr! Grr… gr… Rawr-awr!" Sherlock proceeds to gobble up some sausages in the next swoop. 

Mycroft takes that to mean: I am not a civilized human being, I am a dragon! He sighs indulgently, at the very least his brother is eating. With uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Then the doorbell rings.

* * *

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

His brother's landlady stands at his front door with a large tray in her hands. Ah. She’s here for information, under the guise of the benevolent bearing food. It is evident that Dr. Watson has not confided in her the true nature of Sherlock’s condition. And, he can sense that she doesn’t trust that Mycroft is the best person to look after Sherlock. Small wonder. She had called him a reptile the last time they had met. 

It will be difficult to get rid of her.

She says briskly. "Just here to check up on Sherlock. And, I brought some lasagna."

Does he need to send this to the lab too? It could be very possible that she had laced this no-doubt delicious offering with a poison. But, then again, she wouldn't poison Sherlock. She adores him like a son that she never had.

“My brother’s condition…” Mycroft begins to say, “Is quite sensitive. I am not sure if…”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims. She then takes a different tactic. “Please, Mr. Holmes – I am just worried about that dear boy.”

“Mycie!” Sherlock runs to the front door before Mycroft could formulate a reply – evidently finished with his short career as a dragon. There is residual breakfast all over his face. Grease. Egg yolk. Crumbs. “Who is it? And who are you?” His inquisitive eyes gaze upon Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes comically widen at Sherlock. She has realized the truth of Sherlock’s condition. Shrewd lady. “Oh my!”

Oh my, indeed. Mycroft does not even know how to explain Mrs. Hudson to Sherlock. He can’t really well say that she is Sherlock’s former landlady. Instead, he bends down to pick up his brother – disregarding the risk of getting his shirt dirty from Sherlock’s stained face. “‘Lock, do you remember Dr. Watson from yesterday? The one chasing you around?”

Instead Sherlock buries his face into Mycroft’s shirt. “Doctors are mean!”

Mycroft sighs deeply knowing that his shirt probably needs the dry-cleaners. “I think you better come inside, Mrs. Hudson.”

* * *

“So, is this permanent?” Mrs. Hudson asks delicately, while nursing a cup of English Breakfast. “Not that there is anything wrong with his current state.”

“I am afraid that I do not know the answer.” Mycroft takes a napkin and gently wipes at a subdued Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock turns to Mycroft and asks in a worried voice. “Is there something wrong with me, Mycie?”

It hurts. Mycroft does not want to lie to his brother, but he doesn’t want him freaking out about something that is out of their control. “Nothing important, Lockie. I promise.” One of his hands carefully smooths Sherlock’s curls. His brother is too perceptive for his own good.

“So, who is she, Mycie?” Sherlock asks, mercifully changing the topic of conversation.

“A good friend of yours, Lockie.” Mycroft then whispers confidentially, “I have it on good authority that she bakes excellent biscuits.”

“Biscuits!” It is amazing how distractible young children are. Sherlock beams brightly at Mrs. Hudson. “Can we bake biscuits?” He then furrows his brow and adds, “Please?”

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiles back, fondly.

“How about this? Mrs. Hudson, I have an appointment Friday morning. Would you care to bake biscuits with my brother during that time?”

“Biscuits!” Sherlock is literally bouncing in Mycroft’s lap in joy. “Biscuits!”

“Not your babysitter, Mr. Holmes! But just this once.” Mrs. Hudson says firmly but indulgently, in a way that convinces Mycroft that there will be several such occasions in the future. 

“We can bake some for Mycie! He likes custard creams!” Sherlock has scrambled out of Mycroft’s embrace to run up to Mrs. Hudson on the opposite side of the table. Mycroft rarely touches custard creams these days, considering the butter content of properly made ones – but he still enjoys them on occasion. Nevertheless, he is touched that his brother remembers his childhood favourite.

“And, what do you like, dear?”

“Chocolate chip!”

* * *

“Hold still, Lockie!” Mycroft uses his phone to take a picture of his brother mimicking the stance of the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton that towers over them both at the Natural History Museum.

“Hurry up, Mycie!” Sherlock complains loudly. 

The picture makes Mycroft grin. His little brother looks absolutely absurd and adorable in a three-piece suit complete with a tie, pocket square and pocket watch. He could just imagine how adult-Sherlock would react to such an image. Sherlock wouldn’t be caught dead in such attire. In fact, Sherlock would be horrified to find out how willing he had been to put on this particular ensemble. He hadn’t even complained when Mycroft had efficiently knotted the aubergine tie around his neck. Mycroft has no idea how Anthea managed to find such nice clothes on such short notice. Anyways, he is going to print, frame and hang up all these pictures in his house.

“Alright, I am done now.” 

Sherlock prowls over to the other displays, intently reading the exhibits. Mycroft wonders how many of these words Sherlock actually understands. 

“Mycie! Tyrannosaurus Rex had feathers! Feathers! Like birds!” Sherlock calls out in astonishment. “How? Why?” 

“Well, brother mine.” Mycroft walks over to Sherlock and ponders the display. “Birds are present day relatives of dinosaurs.”

“You mean chickens are dinosaurs?” Sherlock asks in disbelief.

“They are distantly related. Here. Look at this fossil.” Mycroft picks up his brother, mindful to not wrinkle either of their suits and points at a dinosaur-like specimen about the size of a magpie. “Do you know what this is?” 

Sherlock looks at the sign. “Arch… aeo… pteryx.” He struggles with the name. “It looks like a bird, Mycie.”

“Archaeopteryx. It’s a dinosaur. See… look at the three-clawed fingers, the shape of its teeth and its tail. Very similar to theropods – your T-rex for example. And – do you see those impressions – what do they remind you of?” 

“Wings!” Sherlock exclaims. He then frowns. “But, T-rex can’t fly. Too heavy. So why feathers?”

“Brother, there are other uses for feathers. What do you think?” Mycroft asks. 

“Feathers…” Sherlock adopts a thinking pose. Mycroft wishes that he has an arm free to take a photograph. He had been taking candid as well as deliberately posed shots of Sherlock all day, trying to capture the essence of his little brother as a child. A new hobby. 

Sherlock then reasons. “Mm… light, colourful – found in pillows. They could be – warm?”

“Yes, ‘Lock. That’s good. For warmth. Insulation.” Mycroft replies, deciding that evolution, speciation, natural and sexual selection are topics too advanced for his brother to grasp at the moment. Before they had gone to the museum, Mycroft had skimmed several comprehensive reviews on paleontology and evolution online just in case his brother had questions that went beyond his own layman’s knowledge. The modern day search engine and digitized literature and journals has really made it easy to answer Sherlock’s innumerable questions in a factual manner. “Come on, little brother – let’s go ask someone to take some pictures of us together with the dinosaurs, and then we can go to the lab and examine the fossils.”

* * *

By the time they had returned home, heated up some of Mrs. Hudson’s delicious lasagna – made with butternut squash and sat down, Mycroft is exhausted. Fortunately, before Sherlock had woken him at the wee hours of this morning – sometime around five – he had managed to get some restful sleep unburdened by nasty dreams. His brother seems equally tired – he is unnaturally quiet and eating his lasagna like a human being. They had gone to the lab at the museum, where Sherlock and he had spent several hours examining the fossils – footprints of various prehistoric creatures, shells, teeth, bone fragments, plants and various sea creatures. His brother had been fascinated – and tried to deduce things from the fossils – such as which direction the water current was going when a starfish had died by using the direction of where its limbs were pointing. Clever boy. 

Afterwards, they had gone to see the blue whale skeleton, the ichthyosaur fossil and a rock from Mars before Sherlock had dragged Mycroft into the gift shop. His brother had said he was willing to wear the dinosaur-related clothing from the shop – so Mycroft had bought him some t-shirts, hoodies and pajamas. Despite his brother’s favourite dinosaur being the T-rex, Sherlock had insisted on a stegosaurus stuffed animal. When his brother hadn’t been paying attention, Mycroft snuck a fossilized tooth into their purchases. He intends to play deductions with his brother using this fossil at some point.

When Sherlock finishes the last bite of his lasagna, Mycroft says, “Go shower, Lockie.”

“Mm… not tired.” Sherlock tries to hide a yawn.

“Humour me, brother.”

There is a rebellious look in Sherlock’s eyes. But he is too tired to argue. Mycroft smiles slightly when Sherlock leaps down from his chair with his Stegosaurus friend held in the crook of his elbow.

“Help me remove clothes, Mycie?” Sherlock turns around and asks. It is a miracle that none of the lasagna had gotten onto his suit.

“Of course, brother mine.” Mycroft stands up and accompanies Sherlock up the stairs.


	4. Where Sherlock makes a deduction (or where Mycroft takes him to the zoo)

“I am five today.”

Sherlock states as Mycroft helps him crack a few eggs into the mixing bowl. Scrutinizing his brother, Mycroft does notice that Sherlock had gained an inch or two overnight; the navy-blue dress shirt under the dinosaur-patterned apron his brother wears looks tighter and shorter than it ought to be. Damn, he will have to ask Anthea to bring more clothes, especially the larger sized ones. It seems that whatever had affected his brother is slowly wearing off. Taking the bowl from his brother, Mycroft mixes the batter for the pancakes. It’s all psychology, really – children are more likely to eat food that they have been involved in making. 

“How do you know, little brother?” Mycroft asks.

“I just know, Mycie.” Sherlock says solemnly. He then frowns; his dear little face wrinkled with thought. “Don’t I have a sister?” He asks, looking troubled. 

Oh. He’s remembering things… This might be a problem. And, Mycroft doesn’t want to lie; he is done with lying, especially after all the nonsense that had happened back at Sherrinford. He had thought that he had been sparing his brother the pain; however, it had become clear that this type of trauma never really goes away, no matter how deeply buried it was. Lying just made things worse when the truth finally comes out at the end. Sighing, he replies, while pouring some of the batter in the frying pan, “You do, little brother.”

“Is she grown-up like you?” Sherlock continues.

“Yes, little brother – she is.” 

“Where is she?”

“In prison.” 

Sherlock frowns again. Mycroft does not like it one bit; the topic arouses all his protective instincts. “Why?” His brother asks. 

“For doing terrible things, brother mine.” At Sherlock’s questioning look, Mycroft says firmly. “I will tell you when you are older, little Lock.”

“I am older, Mycie!” Sherlock exclaims, beginning to looks somewhat agitated, as Mycroft flips the pancake.

With his spare hand, Mycroft ruffles his brother’s hair fondly. “Lock, you are too curious for your own good.”

“Mycie… does that mean that I was grown up too?” 

Oof… what a guess for a five-year-old. At Mycroft’s pause, Sherlock keeps talking; sure of his deduction now. “I was then. I remember nothing.”

“Honey, jam or maple syrup, little brother?” Mycroft takes advantage of Sherlock’s easily-distractible nature after placing two pancakes on a plate.

“Honey!” Sherlock exclaims excitedly. He reaches for the pancake-laden plate that Mycroft gives him and jumps off the stool that he had been standing on to go to the dining table. Watching his brother eat (surprisingly neatly despite the sticky honey and powdered sugar getting onto his face), Mycroft feels a certain kind of sadness settle within him. It wouldn’t be long before Sherlock starts remembering all the difficult memories, and he would have to decide how best to help. All he could hope for is that Sherlock and he won’t end up estranged as they had the first time around. That would really break his heart. He shakes his head. His brother is only five now; there is still time to make more happy memories. 

* * *

“Raawwwr!” Sherlock growls when he sees a male lion – his mane magnificently reddened under the sunlight – approach the special reinforced glass. His brother makes a comical sight; he is wearing a colourful and thankfully thick hoodie (red, orange and yellow) with the hood decorated as a dinosaur’s head and triangular spikes adorning his back. Beneath this, he is wearing a shirt and tie and the trousers from his suit. The lion, named Bhanu as proclaimed by the nearby plaque, merely casts a doleful look – no doubt he has to put up with this nonsense from visitors of all ages – and Mycroft smirks as he snaps a few rapid shots of Sherlock going eye-to-eye with such an apex predator. 

“He looks like Simba’s father!” Sherlock then adds as the lion casually turns away, his tail brushing deliberately against the glass surface. And then the corners of his eyes suspiciously get moist. 

“Mufasa.” Mycroft simply says as he picks up his brother – who is heavier than yesterday. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to watch _ The Lion King _ after breakfast before going to the zoo. He had forgotten how heartwrenching that movie could be – in an attempt to get his little brother excited about animals. Live ones. Not prehistoric extinct ones.

“You won’t leave me, would you – Mycie?” Sherlock’s expressive eyes are now a startling shade of heartbreaking blue. 

“No, Lockie – I wouldn’t. Not if I can help it.” Mycroft presses a gentle kiss on his brother’s cheek. “I love you, little brother. I always will. I will be there as long as you want me to.” _ And even when you don’t. _ He thinks sadly to himself, his brain taking an unwanted detour of all those dark tumultuous years of Sherlock’s young adulthood. 

“Course I want you to.” Sherlock murmurs, resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Why would I not – big brother?”

“Come on, let’s go see the lemurs.” Mycroft uses his free hand to wipe at his own eyes. Enough weepy sentiment. Although he does intend to tell and show his brother how much he did care – somehow that message had gotten lost the first time around. No more of this archenemy shit. Not if he could help it this time around. “So what are lemurs, little brother?”

“Can we go see the vultures after?” Sherlock asks, his warm breath brushing against Mycroft’s cheek; a contrast to the breezy air of this November day. “Please? Rüppell's vultures! They are the highest flying bird – Mycie! Like airplanes! 11,300 metres!” 

“Of course, little brother.” Mycroft smiles at the fount of random knowledge this five year-old version of Sherlock has. “Then we can go meet the zookeeper and you can see the animals up close – you might get to touch and feed them!” 

“That sounds fun!” Sherlock smiles happily, just as Mycroft stops a passerby who looks like they ought to have decent photography skills judging by the expensive choice of camera they have hanging around their neck to take a photo of the two of them just as Bhanu circles back to the glass. 

* * *

“Happy, little brother?” Mycroft sinks back into the couch of their lodge space at around almost midnight. It is a bit of a risk to stay overnight somewhere else, considering Sherlock may grow older the next day – but he figures that a less bored Sherlock would be easier to handle. Of course there are the marvels of modern technology – that hadn’t been there when they had been children, but Mycroft doesn’t want his brother glued to a screen all day long. And plus, his brother had been absolutely thrilled about the entire day. He doesn’t even remember the last time he had seen Sherlock so genuinely giddy with glee.

“Yes, Mycie!” Sherlock smiles broadly, interrupted from his humming of _ Circle of Life. _

“What was your favourite part of the day?”

“Playing zookeeper!” Sherlock beams. “Got to hold a snake – Belinda! Beautiful serpent! Feeding the penguins! Lion cubs! Even raking poop! Talking to Alex the African Gray. Getting licked by a giraffe. Can’t believe they are blue! The tongues at least! Watching Mycie get licked by a giraffe too!”

Mycroft snorts. That giraffe had caught him completely off guard. Sherlock had died laughing, metaphorically. And the penguins! It had come out more like 'pengwings' from Sherlock's mouth. They had been such divas – if the fish wasn’t up to par, they would spit them out with contemptuous disdain. They had reminded Mycroft of certain people that he had worked with especially considering their natural tuxedo - appearing plumage. 

The large generous donation that he had made to the Zoological Society of London had been worth it just for these moments and the priceless pictures and videos of his little brother. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have allowed Sherlock – being barely five – to participate in such doings. 

“What are we doing tomorrow?” 

“We will be at the zoo till lunch, then you will meet with Mrs. Hudson and bake your biscuits, while I will go to the psychologist.” Mycroft had rearranged the schedule – he had been tempted to ditch the therapy session altogether – but he knows Anthea will be looking at him with absolute disapproval the next time he sees her. And now, he actually has to set a good example for his little brother. “Afterwards, we will see. Something enjoyable, I am sure.”

“You are the best!” Sherlock actually leans forward and pecks Mycroft’s cheek before jumping off the couch. The simple gesture fills Mycroft with such warmth that he feels that he might explode with sentiment. 

Suddenly, his brother bursts into song while acting like a lion with a swagger. “I’m going to be a mighty king / so enemies beware / I’m gonna be the main event / like no king ever was / I’m brushing up on looking down / I’m working on my roar.” His brother gives a mighty and comical roar before stumbling into the loo to brush his teeth. “Oh I just can’t wait to be king!” 

The door slams dramatically behind Sherlock – and Mycroft has to hide his sudden wild desire to laugh in his sleeve. It is terribly amusing to see his little brother use his considerable powers of memory for _ Disney _songs. Where do children even get their massive amounts of energy, Mycroft has no idea – although adult-Sherlock had a lot as well. 

Mycroft himself is rather exhausted from everything they had done today. After all, he had fun too. 

* * *

His heart is pounding when he wakes up in the middle of the night. Drenched in sweat. A sense of fear so visceral that he almost feels like throwing up. Damn. He hadn’t had such a nasty dream for two days. God. Sherlock. He switches on the foreign lamp – remembering that he is at the lodge in the London Zoo. Turning his head, he can see Sherlock is lying in the other bed. Very much alive – the soft sounds of his breathing comfortingly fill the otherwise quiet space. A contrast against the blood and despair in his dreams. There is an interruption in his brother’s breathing, and Sherlock suddenly looks up, his eyes blinking.

“Mycie?” Sherlock crawls out of his blankets.

“I am fine, little brother – go back to bed, dearest mine.” Mycroft whispers – his throat feeling unbearably parched. 

“No, you not fine.” Sherlock deduces, his eyes almost cat-like in the dimness of the room. His brother crawls into Mycroft’s bed – as he had done all those years ago. “Hug?”

Without another word, Mycroft wraps his arms tightly against his brother while pulling him into his lap. Sherlock’s curly head rests against his chest, where his heart lies beneath. His most favourite person in the world. Mycroft sighs deeply as he feels his heart rate slow gradually back to its normal rate. Things will be okay. He tells himself. Why did Mummy feel the need for a third child, anyways? He asks himself for the umpteenth time. 

Things would have been much easier. And happier.

His brother eventually falls back asleep, and Mycroft does too – the two of them snuggling together with the lamp still on; a luminous sentinel warding off nightmares in the darkness.

* * *

A deep exhaustion hits him as he alights from his cab to Baker Street. That therapy session had been no joke. He feels raw; it is as if someone had violently ripped open all the wounds that had scabbed over and healed since Sherrinford. Dr. Farhad had been competent (as one who specialized in dealing with MI6 agents and other people involved in missions of utmost secrecy for the Crown ought to be) and it had made Mycroft feel better when the psychologist had explained that everything is really up to Mycroft – that he had control over how quickly or slowly things progressed. And then, he had reiterated his entire tale of the events of Sherrinford. It had been hard; this retelling of this tale that he would gladly forget to a stranger. He sighs. At least he didn’t need medication – Dr. Farhad had thought it wasn’t necessary – the CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) should be adequate. And of course with this retelling, Dr. Farhad had asked some salient questions – questioning his interpretation and perception of the events as it unfolded. God. He would have to go through this several times – Mycroft is very sure. Rather like cutting into a nasty abscess repeatedly until the foul pus and dead necrotic material is all drained out. And of course, he has homework too. Damn. There will be several hard weeks ahead of him…

“What did you tell him?” 

Mycroft is caught off guard when an unhappy John Watson snaps at him. 

“What could you ever mean, Dr. Watson?” 

Good god, the last thing he wants to do now is to deal with his brother’s flatmate.

“Sherlock… he wouldn’t even look at me!” 

“I didn’t say anything. Sherlock had a rather unhappy experience with the physician I took him to. He never liked needles as a child – and they had to draw blood.” He fights hard to suppress the glee in his voice. It is incredibly nice to see Dr. Watson get the side-eye and rude treatment from his brother for once.

“I could have looked after him. Medically, that is.” 

“Are you a paediatrican by training, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft says, now trying to get rid of the annoyance threatening to break into his speech. 

“No.” The doctor’s face falls. 

“I took him to my physician. She is board-certified for paediatric care. He is fortuitously healthy, but we still don’t know what happened to him. But he seems to be growing up quickly.”

“Yes, even I can tell.” Dr. Watson sighs. “So how is looking after him going?”

“Well. I took him to see the dinosaurs. We’ve been to the zoo. I dare say we are having fun.”

“What about your job?”

“Sabbathical.” Mycroft shrugs, tapping his umbrella against the floor – rather eager for this conversation to end. Sherlock may have forgiven everyone with the surname Watson, but he certainly doesn’t. 

“You took time off!” The doctor looks shocked. “For your brother.”

Mycroft simply nods dismissively, before knocking on Mrs. Hudson’s door. “Good day, Dr. Watson.” He then whispers to himself as the doctor retreats back upstairs. “Contrary to what you may believe, there is very little I wouldn’t do for my brother.”


	5. The cat with two names (or where Sherlock talks to DI Lestrade)

“Mycie! I baked biscuits!” Sherlock exclaims excitedly, wide-and-bright-eyed, when Mycroft enters Mrs. Hudson’s flat. A thin layer of flour covers his apron-wearing brother. “Try them! I make them for you! And me! And, Mrs. Hud’son.” 

Any weariness within Mycroft seems to melt away when Mrs. Hudson takes his coat and leads him to the dining table in the middle of the kitchen at the face of such enthusiasm; of having his favourite person so eager to see him. His little brother jumps off a stool, and runs towards him – but before he could give Mycroft a floury hug – the formidable Mrs. Hudson grabs the exuberant boy gently by his shirt, and tuts. “Sherlock, you are a mess! Take off the apron and change into your clean clothes. I am sure your brother won’t appreciate getting his suit dirty.” 

Looking slightly deflated, Sherlock obeys rather contritely – pulling off the apron, brushing the flour off his dinosaur-themed shirt and he grabs the bag containing a fresh change of clothes before stomping off to the loo. Mycroft had anticipated the mess and had Sherlock bring along extra garments. When the door shuts, Mycroft says, “Well, thank you for saving my suit – and um...” He then adds, “Babysitting my brother.”

Mrs. Hudson offers a smile. “Ah, but really Mr. Holmes – it’s not a problem at all.” And then she whispers conspiratorially, “It’s not that much different compared to what I was doing before. Although… he is less moody as a child.” 

“Then I should really thank you for how you’ve looked after my brother for so many years.” When I couldn’t. Mycroft thinks sadly to himself. Somehow, he finds himself dreading somewhat Sherlock’s more turbulent later years; he doesn’t want their relationship to go back to the way it had been during those dark times. 

“Not necessary. He’s like the son I never had. And I should apologize as well… I can see now that you aren’t –”

“A reptile?” Mycroft finishes the sentence for her, somewhat grinning.

She winces. “You adore him. I can see that now. And he, you. Here, let me pour you a cuppa, and we can enjoy some tea with biscuits and some sandwiches that I made.”

“Mycie!” Sherlock bounds out of the bathroom, arms outstretched.

“Hello, you menace.” Mycroft swings his brother into his lap. 

“Hmph, not a men-ace.” 

“Scourge of all my clothes. Now where are those biscuits you promised, brother mine?”

His brother immediately brightens, “We made your favourite!”

Mrs. Hudson sets out the tea, and a plateful of fresh custard creams, chocolate chip cookies and some of her other baking creations. She finally places a stack of finger sandwiches, containing roast beef, salmon & artichoke or egg salad on the table. Mycroft quickly takes one of the custard creams, and has a bite, savouring the real buttercream used in the recipe.

“This is fantastic, little brother. Just the way I like it. Thank you!”

“Mm… glad you like it, Mycie.” Sherlock reaches over for an egg salad sandwich and takes a bite, before washing it down with a sip of tea. “Missed you, big brother.” 

“Missed you too.” Mycroft uses his clean hand to smooth some of his brother’s unruly curls, his heart seeming to swell with warmth – as physiologically unlikely as it sounds. 

* * *

Much like his older self, the mini-version of Sherlock is a whirlwind of seemingly unlimited energy as he tosses frisbees, balls and sticks for four rowdy dogs (a beagle, a labrador retriever, a poodle-ish dog of indeterminate pedigree and a rottweiler) that the shelter volunteer had reassured repeatedly to Mycroft that they loved children. 

Mycroft sighs, leaning against the doorframe blocked by a dog gate. His little brother loves dogs… Sherlock had always wanted one as a child, but their Father had been allergic – and in retrospect, that may have had been a good thing, because their sister may have ensured that it met a sticky end. She had always been incredibly jealous of everything and everyone that had Sherlock’s attention. Shaking his head, Mycroft pushes these unpleasant thoughts out of his mind. These days are over now. 

His brother lets out a bark of laughter when he accidentally trips and is immediately set upon by an eager beagle who licks at his face. Mycroft shudders with some horror at the dog slobber… 

Maybe he didn’t quite think this idea through enough...

The dirty-blonde haired volunteer, Heidi, comes over with a barely out of kittenhood cat in her arm. “I am going to let her in too, Mr. Holmes. She was virtually raised by dogs, and loves a good romp.” Before Mycroft could say anything, Heidi had already slid the gate upwards and released the cat into the chaos. 

Darting past two of the dogs, the feline makes a beeline for Sherlock. His brother looks surprised at the new visitor – his eyebrow actually arches upwards – _ a cat? _ The cat, Mycroft has to admit, is a gorgeous specimen of her kind: a Bengal, with sleek black stripes over a orangey-brown background; a tiger in miniature. Mycroft watches as Sherlock hastily grabs a nearby stick and flings it into the far corner, where pandemonium reigns when four dogs and a cat chase after the flying object. 

And then, much to his surprise, the Bengal emerges regally, victorious – the stick clenched between her little teeth. She drops the toy in front of Sherlock, who had just gotten up – and proceeds to rub her head affectionately against his brother’s legs while slowly walking in a deliberate, almost seductive circle, purring as she did so. From the entranced look in his brother’s eyes – Mycroft resigns himself to the idea that there is something furry coming home with them.

“You can also walk her.” Heidi adds, “She enjoys wearing a harness.”

“Does she have a name?”

“We call her Mia, but it hasn’t really stuck. She’s a really friendly cat when she gets to know you. I am surprised she took to your brother so quickly; she tends to be shy when around people and animals that she is not familiar with.”

“Mycie!” Sherlock calls out, having picked up the cat and is now cradling the purring creature in his arms. She extends her elegant torso to lick repeatedly at Sherlock’s neck, making his brother giggle uncontrollably, “Hey – stop! That’s ticklish!”

“Yes… I know… little brother – you want to keep her. You may.” 

The radiant look of happiness his brother directs at him sears into Mycroft’s brain; he will not forget this moment till his dying day. 

* * *

The unexpected ring of the doorbell makes Mycroft sigh. Reluctantly he leaves Sherlock who is busy teasing Mia with a woven fish adorned with tassels dangling on a stick. They were having a debate on what to name the cat while Mycroft had been setting out all the wooden pieces and carpentry tools needed to assemble an extensive catwalk and playground around the living room for the new feline member of their household. His little brother had wanted to name her after the most notorious and successful pirate – Ching Shih – that had ever set sail on the seven seas, but Mycroft is a little leery of naming any pet of theirs after anyone associated with prostitution. Of course, he knows that the pirate is a famed tactician who had defeated the ships of the British Empire and decimated the Qing dynasty fleets to the point where they had to use fishing boats in an era where the world was run by men. And of course, one of the ones proficient enough to die in her own bed surrounded by her own brethren. However, he prefers the cat’s original name – Mia. 

Opening the door, he sees DI Lestrade waiting; ah, another one of his brother’s curious goldfish… he muses. 

“Detective Inspector… what brings you to my humble abode?”

“Just wanted to see how your brother and yourself are getting along.”

“We are doing fine.” Mycroft says just as the sound of scampering paws, little feet and a loud crash grabs both of their attention.

“Well, until now I suppose.” The DI actually winks. 

Mycroft quickly walks back over to the living room with Lestrade in tow, where Sherlock is sitting on the ground nursing his knee while Mia nuzzles apologetically at the injured limb and the pieces of an expensive porcelain vase are scattered around the troublemaking pair. The table that the Qing dynasty vase had been sitting on had been knocked over.

“Mycie…?” There is a worried look on his little brother’s face. It’s not a familiar expression that Mycroft is used to seeing on Sherlock’s face – the adult-Sherlock would have been completely unrepentant. 

“Are you hurt?” Is the first question that reflexively comes out of Mycroft’s mouth.

“My knee hurts. I am sorry, Mycie. Ching Shih and I were just having some fun…” Sherlock attempts to stand up, but Mycroft gestures for him to stop.

“Stay there, Lockie – I don’t want you to cut yourself on the shards.” Mycroft runs to the kitchen to grab a pan, a broom and a fabric bag. Damn, he will have to get Anthea to pick up the pieces at some point and bring them to an artisan to see if there’s anything that could be done to salvage this Chinese antique. And, of course – he should probably get the other breakables in the house put into storage for now. He’s lucky that it isn’t something worth over a hundred-grand.

When he returns, he hears DI Lestrade and his brother talking.

“You are the police. I saw you before!”

“Indeed you did, Sherlock.”

“I was in a lab. And then you… and that doctor came in. But… I don’t know why I was there in the first place…” Sherlock scrunches up his face as he thinks. “I know I was grown up at that point.”

“You were doing your job.” The DI explains patiently.

“My job? I am not police, am I?” 

The DI laughs good-naturedly. “Ah, no – Sherlock. You were not. You were a consulting detective.”

“What’s that?” Sherlock furrows his brow – and Mycroft ponders whether if it is wise to let his brother know so much about his former life. But then again, if Sherlock ever figured out how to use a search engine on some device – he could easily suss out his life story. Ah… the perils of the modern world. Perhaps it is better to let him figure things out like this from people who actually know him. 

“You made it up – Sherlock.” Lestrade continues to explain. “It means that whenever the police, namely me, are out of our depth, we ask for your help.” 

“Hm… that sounds cool!” Sherlock exclaims. “Did I catch murderers? Pirates? Villains?”

“All of those and more – Sherlock. The streets of London are much safer because of you.” The DI gives Sherlock a genuinely admiring glance, and his brother beams. Lestrade then turns to Mycroft, “Do you need help?”

“Oh no – I got this under control.” Mycroft starts sweeping the porcelain into the pan. 

“I heard from John that you stepped away from your job…”

“Temporarily.” Mycroft shrugs, not too eager to discuss his personal life, before proceeding to dump the pan full of shards into the bag. He would need to vacuum the area as well to get rid of the microscopic sharp bits left over. “Lock… let me see your leg.” He bends down and carefully pulls up his brother’s trouser leg. A nasty colourful bruise had begun to form. With his hand, he carefully palpates the injured flesh, causing his brother to wince. “Nothing seems broken.” He remarks. 

“Kiss it better?” Sherlock asks, his eyes dark and imploring.

Mycroft turns to look meaningfully at the DI, who holds up his hands in surrender and says. “Ok, I know when I am not needed. Give a ring if you need anything. I mean it – Mr. Holmes. I will see myself out.”

“Bye Greg!” Sherlock waves cheerfully, and Mycroft could hear the DI almost choke with resigned laughter as he leaves. 

When the DI is safely out of the house, Mycroft presses a gentle kiss on his brother’s knee before planting another on his cheek. “Brother mine, kindly keep the running and horseplay in the house to a minimum. Don’t worry about the vase – none of them are as irreplaceable as you. But – that doesn’t mean you should go and break them all – I will be cross if you do. And when we go to the cottage tomorrow – you can run with Mia as much as you like. I promise.”

“Can we have a bonfire? Ooh – can we go sailing? Ching Shih can be my First Mate!” 

“Not me?” Mycroft gives a mock-offended look.

“Mycie! I need a… a na-vi… gator.” Sherlock sounds out the word. “You tell me where to go.” 

“Fair enough, little brother.” Mycroft offers a smile – glad that his bloodthirsty pirate-captain of a little brother didn’t say that he needed a prisoner to walk the plank.


	6. A tale of two pirates (or where they set sail)

When Mycroft kills the engine of the sloop, there are only the sounds of the undulating sea waves and the gentle whistling of the November winds. The jib sail and the mainsheet had been unfurled and secured – Sherlock had whooped in joy and precariously leapt onto the boat’s prow when the jib had caught the wind just right, causing their boat to skim both smoothly and rapidly through the calm waters of the Jurassic Coast. Mycroft had grabbed his brother by the back of his life jacket – hauling him back onto safer ground seconds later. It had taken the better part of fifteen minutes to convince his brother to even put on life jacket before they had even set sail, as Sherlock had argued passionately that pirates didn’t use such safety measures. The cat, Mia, elegantly walks around the sloop – in her harness and a life jacket as if she had been born at sea on a ship. 

He lounges at the stern of their sloop, getting up now and then to trim the sails according to the changes in the wind while keeping one wary eye on his brother, and the other on the scenery. It is a beautiful day with picturesque clouds. The sun is shining brightly, illuminating the shimmering waters in gorgeous gradients of blues and greens. The cliffs with its sediments teeming with the remnants of life that came before them loom over them. Sherlock – currently six years of age – is now kneeling close to the pulpit of the bow with Mia beside him. His arms gesticulate wildly – pointing out different things to the attentive feline, undoubtedly spinning some imaginative yarn about the adventure they are currently on. A maroon bandana covers his brother’s curls and trails down his back, fluttering in the wind – complete with an embroidered skull and crossbones on the side. 

“Mycie! There’s no plank!” His brother yells over the wind.

“Modern day boats don’t come equipped with any of those anymore – little brother. Besides, I am not fishing anyone out from these frigid seas today.” 

“That’s not fun!” Sherlock complains.

Mycroft fights the urge to laugh. Ah, so his brother wants fun, hm? He will give him some fun. “Hm… maybe I should toss you overboard.”

“You wouldn’t!” Sherlock gasps comically as Mia slinks away to the port side – not wanting any part of this treacherous conversation. He then scowls, his bright eyes blazing as fierce as the overhead sun. “I am the Cap’n! The meanest, fiercest and scariest scourge to ever set sail in these seven seas!”

“The biggest menace.” Mycroft grins. Ah, this is his life – sailing around British coastlines and teasing his beloved little brother. It really couldn’t be better. It had been years since Mycroft had sailed a boat – having learned how to during University. “I would be doing the world an enormous favour.” Getting up, he moves to readjust the rigging, trimming the sheets tighter to turn the craft just a bit further into the wind. 

Sherlock takes his sudden movements as an act of aggression. “Arr… You aren’t going to stage a mutiny on me, are you brother?” 

“And, what if I do? Surely you can’t pilot this sloop by yourself, Lockie.” 

“Not Lockie!” His brother complains loudly as Mycroft takes another step forward towards him. “I will make you walk the plank – Mycie!”

“Oh, will you? My little menace.” With a sudden move, Mycroft swoops down, picking up his errant little Cap’n. 

His brother squirms in futile protest in his arms. “I refuse to be treated like this!” 

Mycroft playfully swings his brother towards the sea on the starboard side. It is amazing how fast Sherlock changes his tune.

“No, Mycie! Don’t throw me overboard to the fishies! You can be Cap’n! I am your Lockie! I surrender! I surrender!” 

“Mm… do you? Fine. I will let you off this time, you fiend.” Mycroft finds it hard to keep the smile off his face. 

“Not fiend, Mycie’s Lockie.”

“Mm… so you are.” Mycroft kisses his brother’s cheek before letting him back down gently on the deck. 

Yes. He thinks. 

_ You will always be my Lockie. _

Sherlock hugs Mycroft’s leg before scampering over to Mia, who had returned to her spot at the bow – exclaiming “Ching Shih! I live to fight another day!” like a returning hero rather than the loser of the encounter. 

* * *

In the shadows of the cottage at the dead of night, Mycroft walks back up the creaky stairs after fetching a glass of water from the kitchen. The quiet is disrupted by the sound of tossing and turning – and when Mycroft stops to listen closely – the sound of quiet distress coming from his brother’s room. Oh fuck. With care, he opens the door and rushes to Sherlock’s side.

“Sherlock. Brother. Lock. Wake up. It’s a dream.” He gently shakes his brother awake. 

Bright, vulnerable and wide eyes blink back at him in the darkness of the room – illuminated by the muted lights of the hallway outside and the moonlight shining from the clear skies outside. There is a suspicious amount of moisture on Sherlock’s cheeks. 

“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft wipes away at the wetness with his fingers. His little brother throws himself into Mycroft’s arms, burying his face against his silken nightshirt. “What is wrong, darling boy?”

His brother doesn’t respond, only further burrowing himself deeper into Mycroft’s chest – as if he is trying to crawl into his body. Mycroft’s dominant hand drifts upward of its own volition, and gently caress his brother’s unruly curls. Sighing softly, Mycroft sits down on his brother’s bed, his back against the wooden logs that make up the walls of the structure. They sit there for minutes – the time passing in the silence marred only by the chirping of crickets. 

“Mycie.” Sherlock begins to stir. There is a cautious air in his voice. “Did I have a best friend? I mean, besides you and Ching Shih?” At Mycroft’s stricken look, Sherlock continues – his tone sounding somewhat lost. “Redbeard? Maybe… or his name started with a ‘v’. We were pirates… And then, one day he was gone.” He then frowns abruptly. “I am seven today.”

“Come, brother mine.” are the words that fall from Mycroft’s lips. He knew this day was coming, but he is still clueless on how to handle such revelations from the past. “Get dressed.”

“But it’s dark out?” 

“Then it would perfect for a fire. What do you think?” Mycroft had been planning to make a campfire the next day, but such events called for drastic action. 

The truth. This time around. No dogs. No lies. 

“Yes. Sure. But… it’s late?”

“Oh, Lockie – I have a horror story to tell you. A ghastly one. And… unfortunately, it’s all true.” 

* * *

The fire crackles. It burns – a dance of red, orange and gold – in the firepit. Above them, the stars twinkle. It is cold with the gusts of wind blowing inland from the sea. Both Mycroft and Sherlock huddle close to the warmth of the flames – dressed in their warmest clothes. Mycroft passes Sherlock a stick with marshmallows skewered upon it, before placing the basketful of s'mores making ingredients on the hard ground between them. They roast marshmallows in mutual silence, accompanied by the sounds of the coastal wilderness, the beat of which is kept by the waves crashing against the seashore a short walk away. 

When Sherlock starts spreading some peanut butter against a graham cracker with a knife, Mycroft speaks slowly – while questioning himself whether if this is the correct course of action. “Once upon a time, there were two pirates who sailed the seven seas. Their names were Redbeard and Yellowbeard. They sought treasure together, fought together, slept together, ate together… they even laughed together. Then, one day – they sailed their ship into the East Wind. The East Wind… is an entity prone to extremes of mood. Of temperament. She… had a predilection for one of the pirates – Yellowbeard – but he wouldn’t pay any heed to her – preferring to sail his ship outside. Jealousy consumed this Wind. One day, when the two pirates inadvertently sailed back into the East Wind, Redbeard – who was taking the first watch of the night – walked too close to the edge of the ship. And… with all her might… the Wind blew strong…”

“And Redbeard was thrown off the ship…” Sherlock’s whisper is barely audible. “Never to be seen again. He… drowned. Is that right, Mycie?” His mittened hand stops spreading the peanut butter.

“Yes, Lock – that is correct.” 

“And… Yellowbeard was me.”

Mycroft nods. 

“And… drowning… never to be seen again… is that… Death?”

“Yes.. my dear boy. It is. A simple conceptualization, but nevertheless, true.”

“There’s more to this story.” Sherlock says grimly, as he smears one of his gooey marshmallows onto his cracker. “The East Wind… she is… Eurus. My sister. My younger sister.” He puts a slab of milk chocolate and another cracker and takes a large bite. “She… killed him. Oh. Mycie! I remember. I remember all of it now. Victor! Victor… how… could she? He did nothing wrong… but was my friend! My best friend. And… I won’t ever see him again…” A large tear falls from the corner of Sherlock’s eye. 

Feeling his own heart crack, Mycroft puts down the s’more he had been nibbling on. He picks up his sobbing little brother from his seat on the bench and holds him tight – pressing a kiss against his forehead. Even though Victor had died decades ago, he knows that for his brother – it is as if the death had happened yesterday. God. No little boy deserved to be feeling the emotional burden that Sherlock had just been dealt. Maybe this time, he could help his brother come up with another way to deal with this agony without having to resort to the juvenile mental defense of repression and keeping everyone at a distance to prevent himself from being too attached. 

As he cradles his brother against him, Mycroft the stalwart agnostic finds himself praying to every deity he knows – that Sherlock and he would get past the old traumas… to a healthier and happier state of existence. 

* * *

The noon sun shines radiantly through the windows by the time Mycroft wakes up. There are two discrete warm bundles curled up against him. The excessive warmth forces him to throw the blankets off. Moments later, his brother blinks – his eyes crusty for he had cried himself to sleep in Mycroft’s arms hours before. To Sherlock’s overall demeanour the recollections had rather subdued him. 

Cautiously, Mycroft greets. “Morning, little brother.”

“Morning.” Sherlock murmurs rather glumly – his eyes still directed downward to the bedsheets. 

“Mrow!” Mia stirs too. The cat butts her head repeatedly against Sherlock’s exposed belly. His brother barely pays any heed to her. Displeased, she swats at Sherlock’s cheek – demanding his attention. 

“Yowl!” 

Sherlock’s arm reflexively wraps around her body. His hand starts stroking her soft fur. Mia purrs before reaching up to lick at his brother’s face, eliciting a reluctant giggle and a small smile. “Meow!” She then demands after enjoying a minute or two of being petted.

“I think the Queen is hungry – little brother.” Mycroft cannot help but smile at the scene. It is clear that Mia will not let Sherlock mope for long. 

Sherlock climbs out of bed, apparently eager to have something to do. “Let’s see what we brought for you from the grocery shop, Chih.” Skipping the loo, he walks out of the bedroom with Mia playfully weaving in and out between his legs. 

* * *

“What is this, Mycie?” Sherlock asks when Mycroft presents him with a pocket magnifier after they had all eaten a late brunch of leftover s’mores, omelettes, freshly squeezed orange juice and a gourmet can of wet salmon-based cat food for Mia.

“You see, Lock – you can slide it open like this – and then you have a magnifying glass. I thought it could be helpful when we see fossils later. We will definitely find some when we go to the seashore.” 

“Oh! Thank you, big brother!”

“You are welcome, little brother.” Mycroft stands up and ruffles Sherlock’s curls as he does so. “Don’t point it too long at an object in the direct sunlight…” 

His little brother grins reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Mycie – I won’t set anything on fire.” He then frowns as he puts the magnifier in his coat pocket. “Something did burn down though. I saw fire. Smelled smoke. In my dreams.”

“Ah… our little sister – Lockie. She burned down our childhood home to ashes before she was finally sent away.” Mycroft explains. “The last straw – as we could definitively prove that she had done so.” 

Sherlock shivers visibly. “She… she… was a… psy… chopath. Evil.”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft sighs, loath to label anything as ‘good’ or ‘evil’. “But, you needn’t worry about her now. I won’t let her harm you – ever again.”

“Mycie.” Sherlock then looks solemnly upwards – his eyes meeting Mycroft’s. “You said you had dreams. Bad ones. Are they of the East Wind too?”

“Yes. Little brother. I dream of her too.”

“But not of Redbeard?”

“No.”

“She did something to you.” Sherlock deduces.

“Yes. But.. much more recently. I… messed up. But – Lock. Let’s not worry about me right now. Let’s go have a fun day. Here – take Mia’s leash.”

Sherlock adopts a thoughtful expression as one of his hands reach for Mia’s leash – which is clipped onto the back of her harness. Mycroft grabs a warm scarf and wraps it around his brother’s neck – as it is a very blustery day. The look in Sherlock’s eyes seem to say “I will figure out everything soon, Mycie.”. And Mycroft wanted nothing more than to tell his brother that there is no hurry to grow up and figure out everything. But, alas – Sherlock is the quintessential explorer – too curious for his own good. He would always want to forge ahead.

Instead Mycroft settles for “We will be okay, little brother. Allons-y.” as Sherlock pushes open the front door of the cottage allowing the eager Mia to bound outside first into the fresh sea-tinged air.


	7. Conversation by the cove (or where Mycroft reveals too much)

Sherlock closes his eyes as he wipes his greasy fingers against the fabric of the red-white checkered picnic blanket separating his bum from the sand. The sea breeze blows inland – warm for a late autumn day. He could imagine it. On the waters. A rickety ship seasoned with voyages, teeming with a hardy fierce crew, armed to the teeth with cutlasses and other weaponry. The gentle rolling of the deck beneath his feet. A faithful first mate standing beside him at the prow as the ship sails into the picturesque cove – best friends since they could walk – chasing butterflies in the field, piloting wooden ships in the local lake – reading yarns of adventure under the giant sequoia. Breaking bread and eating fish fried on a stone in the outdoors. Victor. He finds himself forming the two syllables with his lips. 

His fingers reach for another crispy chip from the takeaway box. He’s missing something. Someone. Victor was his best friend. But there is someone else of import. Essential. 

Turning his head to the right, he catches a glance. Mycroft. His brother. Tall. Ancient compared to Sherlock now – although seven had always felt like a chasm. No longer chubby. Ching Shih is curled up on Mycroft’s belly. Purring as she soaks up the late afternoon rays. Traitor. 

There is a relaxed look about his brother, lying here on the beach. Casual too – the tracksuit, the faded jeans, the running shoes. Somehow, Sherlock has a sense that this is not Mycroft’s day-to-day wear. He had seen big brother’s fancy suits. And yet – big brother isn’t quite relaxed as one would think. If Sherlock is to move, Mycroft’s eyes would follow instantly. Ever watchful. Concerned. But… it’s not the same as it once was. In Sherlock’s first childhood – if he could call it as such. There’s fear. But why?

Sherlock is nine now. Almost ten. It is almost the end of their visit to the Jurassic Coast. They will go to Victor’s grave tomorrow, because Sherlock had demanded it and Mycroft had reluctantly given in. Another thought. He doesn’t remember the existence of a grave the first time around. It’s annoying, having all these details that do not fit. Sherlock likes puzzles, but he finds that he doesn’t like it when the puzzle is himself. He wants to know. And he wants to know… now.

The hoodie he wears is absurd. It had been his favourite a few days ago – orange with blue dino spikes, but now he definitely needs new clothing. Even his jeans feel like they had shrunk – as if they had endured too many laundry cycles. Mycroft had brought variously sized shoes, so Sherlock could at least walk without agony. But it’s not the clothes that have shrunk, it’s that Sherlock had grown a lot during the past few days. 

Another chip. The delicious crunchiness between his teeth. Mm… He needs a plan. Baker Street. Did he live there in his adult life? He certainly didn’t live with Mycroft – there is almost none of his possessions at his brother’s house. And Mrs. Hudson and that doctor? What was his name again? John? Who are they in relation to him? Yes. He needs to find himself before he can tackle the other problems. 

“Sherlock?” His brother calls, interrupting his thoughts.

“What?” 

“Did you eat all the chips?”

He looks. All the fish is gone. There are two more greasy pieces of perfection left. Mm… should he? Sighing, he takes the two chips and shuffles over to his brother on his knees. He reluctantly feeds them to Mycroft – one piece after the other. His brother smiles so fondly at him – and Sherlock finds himself mentally kicking himself for thinking such a selfish thought. 

“I will buy you another box of chips before we leave, Lock – thank you.” 

Lock. Sherlock. Mycroft no longer calls him ‘Lockie’ anymore ever since Sherlock had complained he was too old to be called that the other day. His brother had sighed… there had been a brief look of sadness on his countenance. Does Mycroft not want him to grow up? To discover what memories he had lost? Well. Victor’s death and Eurus’ misdeeds hadn’t been pleasant ones – but… is there more? What other horrors await?! His brain whirls and he sighs deeply when Mycroft’s fingers tangle themselves in his curls – gently caressing his scalp. 

Is he getting too old for this too? Being petted by big brother? 

No. Sherlock shakes his head. Growing up isn’t worth it if he had to give up all his comforts. He rests his head against his brother’s chest – using it as a pillow – hearing the lub-dub of Mycroft’s heart beat steadily. Mycroft. The builder of the wooden ship – The Red Revenge – that Victor and he had sailed the seven seas (lake) with. The catcher of the fish in the streams that they had many a merry feast over. Who had snuck Sherlock ice cream when Mummy refused on multiple occasions. Big brother isn’t selfish. 

Something gets draped over his body – his woolen coat – protecting him from the chiliness of the wind. 

Is he (Sherlock) selfish? 

“For someone on a beach – Sherlock, you are doing a lot of thinking.” Mycroft remarks. “Can hear your gears turning from here.” 

“I don’t know anything, Mycroft.” Sherlock finds himself saying. “I remember things from my ‘first childhood’ but it doesn’t all match up to here. And… I see things. Like – you used to go to work a lot, but you don’t do so anymore. And you do something important. That I lived at Baker Street before I became a child. And… the way you watch me… it’s not the same…”

“The way I watch you?” Mycroft sounds perplexed, but Sherlock can pick up an undercurrent of worry behind it – he can feel Mycroft’s heartbeat start to race.

“Like… you are scared something is going to happen to me… Mycroft. Does it have to do with your dreams?” 

“Oh, Lock. Sherlock.” 

It’s disconcerting. His brother – ever so reliable – appears distraught. 

“I couldn’t protect you from everything.”

Sherlock gets up back on his knees and leans over Mycroft. “What couldn’t you protect me from?”

“If you are getting your memory back, and filling in the blanks – my smart boy – you will find out soon enough.” Mycroft whispers – resigned. “I failed you again and again. Starting with Victor.” His brother sits up and grabs Sherlock’s arm with an urgency that causes Ching Shih to leap off Mycroft’s belly with an unhappy yowl. “I can only hope that you will forgive me – and not forget me.”

“Forget you?” Sherlock is astonished. “Never.” 

The haggard dimness in Mycroft’s eyes reveal another story. It sends a chill straight down Sherlock’s spine. Did he forget Mycroft? How? Every facet of his life seems full of Mycroft. Every one that is worthwhile at least. And what is there to forgive? It’s not big brother’s fault that Eurus went crazy. What else had happened in all those missing years? Sherlock crawls – and ends up in Mycroft’s lap. He wraps his arms around big brother – well as much as he could cover – and buries his face against Mycroft’s chest. His brother appears to be frozen on the spot, and a furry warm bundle bounds also into Mycroft’s lap; Ching Shih had evidently decided that the blanket was not suited to her napping needs. A sense of dread fills him – and he hears big brother sigh again.

“Bollocks.” 

Sherlock giggles – having not expected to hear that vulgarity leave his brother’s proper lips. 

“I fuc-messed this up again. Didn’t I?” Mycroft wraps an arm around Sherlock’s back. “I didn’t want you to rush through your childhood –”

“Because there’s nothing good that follows, Mycroft?”

“No.” His brother denies firmly. “I was proud of you. Lock – before.”

“But you weren’t always…”

The lack of an immediate reply tells Sherlock what he needs to know.

“Now you dread it – regaining your memories – growing older? I spoiled your life again – brother mine. Too much information.” 

“No!” Sherlock says vehemently. “Mycroft – no.” He then adds. “You might as well tell me what happened when I grew up.”

“Sherlock. I don’t think that’s a good idea. You aren’t ready. You think you are – but you aren’t. I-I... traumatized you enough already for one day. I didn’t plan to say anything I just told you – you caught me off guard. And, I don’t want your memories to be tainted with what is my perspective of things. If you are to regain them, I want it to be from you... You can always ask me to fill you in on something you are remembering.”

Sherlock sighs in disappointment. Perhaps big brother is right. It makes sense that he has to make sense of things on his own. But he knows, at least – the path forward won’t be entirely sunshine and rainbows like it had been before he had remembered Victor. 

At least there will be chips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't forget about this story. Just stuck!


	8. The papers at baker street

Flurries.

They fall lightly – like pieces of wet cotton. The first snow. 

How quiet it is. How tranquil. Mycroft didn’t think he would be back here so soon. Any quantity of time would be too soon. Technically, the land here still belongs to Mummy and Father – but they want nothing to do with it. The remnants of their childhood home remain in the distance. When Mycroft inherits, he plans to sell it immediately. Unhappiness and cruelty had been sown here, and left to fester. 

They had gone to the graveyard first in the outskirts of the little sleepy town nearby. Victor’s remains had been returned to his parents shortly after the events of Sherrinford and buried in the age-old corner where all the Trevors rest. Neither Sherlock or he had been present for the burial. Sherlock had walked to the stone, with Mia in tow. Dressed solemnly in a suit and tie – little brother had laid down a bouquet of yellow roses onto the ground. From the distance, he could see Sherlock move his lips – seeming to have a brief conversation with the deceased, before Sherlock had stood up and was ready to leave. 

The wet flakes drop to the damp ground, persist for a few seconds, before melting away into the ground. This is not snow that will stay. 

Mia leads the way, stopping here and there to sniff at various things of interest. The curious cat. There is method to this madness; however, when Mycroft realizes with horror that she is heading for that well hidden in the copse at the periphery of the property. She steps lightly, like a tiger on a hunt. Each paw is put forth deliberately, and Mycroft knows it is too late to turn back now. Little brother is jogging to keep up with her, harness in hand. The abandoned well is short enough for Sherlock to easily look downward, into the abyss where one Dr. Watson had been awaiting a watery death a few months back. 

“What is it, Ching?” Sherlock looks down at Mia.

“Yow!” She vocalizes, her paws scratching at the bricks as she stands on her hind legs.

“It’s a well.” Little brother observes, rather boredly. “Abandoned. I suppose there used to be a rope and bucket for bringing water up – hm… Ching Shih?”

“Mrowl!” Mia sounds highly displeased. If Mycroft could translate – he could almost swear Mia is saying ‘Don’t be stupid!’. Damn. He knew cats were sensitive beings, but not like this! Coincidence? 

“Mm… it’s awfully deep. I suppose.”

The way Sherlock says it suddenly makes Mycroft feel uncomfortable. Why had he let Sherlock come so close? He crosses the last few steps and gently tugs little brother away. 

“What’s wrong, Myc?” Sherlock asks, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“It’s… not safe here.” 

“It’s just a well.”

“Well, you did say that it was awfully deep.” 

Sherlock looks thoughtful while Mia sits next to the well. 

“You aren’t telling me something.” Sherlock deduces all too easily. “And you don’t want to say it.”

Yes. Brother. There are many things I am not telling you. Mycroft sighs deeply. “Should we go back? I don’t think we should end our little trip in such a grim locale.” 

“Tell me!” Sherlock pleads. “Something happened here. Even Ching Shih knows it.” 

“Come Lock, let’s go get ourselves a nice warm snack. It’s really starting to feel like winter.” Mycroft takes his brother by the hand, and Sherlock reluctantly trudges along. 

* * *

“Victor died there, didn’t he?”

It’s the only thing that makes sense. Sherlock stretches out on the sofa in another cottage that they had rented for the night. There had been no gravestone for Victor the first time around. No funeral. No one had known where his friend had gone. Only his sister had known, and knowing her – even at that tender age – she wouldn’t have told anyone. 

She had been obsessed with secrets. Unfortunately for him, she had been obsessed with him as well. Always trying to get him to play. Wanting his attention. Sherlock had always ducked out of it, preferring the company of Victor and Mycroft. There had always been something off about Eurus, and he could never quite put it into words. His parents had been too absentminded to notice, and Mycroft, well, he isn’t even sure how big brother had felt toward little sister. But certainly, she hadn’t been obsessed with Mycroft. Perhaps, even annoyed at big brother at times for monopolizing Sherlock’s attention.

And Mycroft had looked uncomfortable and unhappy during their walk at Musgrave today. He had borne the look of a man who would rather be anywhere but there. The comment about the deepness of the well had triggered something in big brother – and Sherlock had heard the fear in his voice. Someone had died at the well. But… Mycroft is… he didn’t even know how old his brother is anymore. Certainly not seven years older than him. Middle-aged. If Sherlock had to guess, less than fifty, greater than forty. Would a murder of a little boy really affect Mycroft that much? Even back then, Mycroft certainly had not woken up sweating and fearful in the middle of the night. Sherlock had shared the bed with him after Victor had vanished. He had been the one with the nightmares. Not big brother. Mycroft had explained it to him the other day. His condition. Termed it PTSD. A mental disorder that happens after something one has witnessed or had been a part of something terrible. 

No. Something else must have happened. 

“Yes, Sherlock. He did.” Mycroft admits. “Eurus put him into the well. He drowned. We didn’t find his remains until… quite recently. That’s why you have no memory of a gravestone, little brother.”

“Thank you for telling me.” 

“Of course. I don’t know how Ching Shih knew though.”

The cat in question looks toward them from her berth next to the stone fireplace. She yawns and rearranges herself on her cushion, looking as dignified as ever. 

“Can I…” Sherlock makes a move toward Mycroft – suddenly feeling like he needs – well, not to be alone. 

“Anytime.” Mycroft says – pressing his lips lightly on Sherlock’s forehead when he tumbles onto his lap. 

“I am not too old for this, am I?”

“That’s up to you to discern, little brother.” 

His brother’s arms wrap tightly around him. Sherlock snuggles up, enjoying the warmth of being cuddled. It’s nice, just the two of them together. Somehow, he thinks – this isn’t something big brother indulges in with other people.

“But you aren’t too old for this.”

“I certainly don’t think so.”

“Then I am not either.”

“Glad that’s established.”

“You… don’t do this with other people, Myc? No children? No – um… wife…” Seeing the look on big brother’s face, he quickly amends, “Husband? Boyfriend?” 

“Not for a long time, little brother. And certainly – no children. Mia is probably the closest to a child I will ever have.” 

“I take it we don’t do this, do we – Myc?”

There is an odd expression on Mycroft’s face. Sherlock really cannot make heads or tails out of it. As quickly as it appears, it disappears. 

“No. We… uh… did not.” 

“Too bad.” Sherlock murmurs, letting his head rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. He closes his eyes. “Never been more comfortable.”

“Good. It’s been a long day, brother mine – you should sleep.” A hand caresses his back, and Sherlock sighs rather happily. Not only does he want to find out what happened in his life, he wants to help his brother. He wants Mycroft to stop having nightmares. Get rid of his PTSD. The least he could do for big brother. Mm… tomorrow he will be going to Baker Street to spend some time with Mrs. Hudson, because Mycroft is going to go see his psychologist. And, what is that device that Mycroft types away at every day? A laptop? There is this thing… the internet – big brother had called it – that could be used to look up everything. If Baker Street is where he lived – he must have his own laptop! It had seemed like something most people would have. Yes. Perfect. He will look up PTSD. And a recipe for Mrs. Hudson and he to make together for Mycroft! Oh. He could bring some things back to Mycroft’s place. He could also talk to Mrs. Hudson and… John? 

As he starts getting drowsy, he feels Mycroft stand up, shift him around for an easier to carry position and start walking toward the bedroom. 

* * *

“Sherlock! You’ve grown quite a bit, young man.” Mrs. Hudson beams at him when Sherlock walks in with Mycroft in tow. 

“Hullo, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock settles his bag down on a chair – feeling rather shy, as Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson exchange a few words.

“Mr. Holmes, don’t you fret – I will keep a good eye on your Sherlock – and will return him to you in good condition.” Mrs. Hudson then grins. “I am sure we will have fun.”

“Don’t spoil him too much.” Mycroft then turns to Sherlock, squatting down to meet him at eye-level. He ruffles Sherlock’s curls. “I will be back soon, Lock – try not to make too much of a mess, please.”

“I will try.” Sherlock smiles wryly. 

After a split-second hesitation, Sherlock flings his arms around his big brother. Mycroft hugs him back, before standing up. There is a slight smile that hadn’t been there before on big brother’s countenance. 

“See you soon.” His brother picks up his umbrella and leaves, shutting the door to the flat quietly behind him. 

“What should we do today, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks, fussing around the kitchen before procuring a plate full of biscuits. 

Ooh. Sherlock examines the offerings. There’s chocolate chips, some hobnobs and oh – ginger nuts! His hand shoots out and grabs one, while Mrs. Hudson chuckles. The biscuit disappears into Sherlock’s mouth. Mm… so he is right! Ginger nuts are better than chocolate chips. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Ah. Just that some things haven’t changed at all, dearie.” Mrs. Hudson sips from a mug of freshly brewed tea. 

“I used to come here and eat ginger nuts?”

Mrs. Hudson raises an eyebrow. “I see that you’ve found out… the truth.”

“Not all of it, Mrs. Hudson. Trying to remember. Myc said it was best if I figured it out on my own.” Sherlock furrows his brow in thought. “But it’s hard.” 

“How old are you today?”

“Ten.” Sherlock then frowns. “My brother went away to school when he was sixteen. When I was nine.” Hm… where did that fact come from? He hadn’t remembered this yesterday when he had been nine. 

“I take it that you were close to your brother?”

“He… is big brother. My best friend.” Sherlock suddenly feels sad, realizing the meaning behind Mrs. Hudson’s words. “Myc and I – we weren’t close as adults?” 

“I wouldn’t say so. No.” Mrs. Hudson replies, looking sorry that she had ever asked Sherlock the question. “But, I am very glad that you two get along at the moment.”

“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock changes the topic. He will ponder his past-future relationship with his brother later. “Can you – uh, take me to where I used to live? I want to see it!” 

“Of course. You lived upstairs. Come, dearie. Follow me.” Mrs. Hudson puts down her mug and Sherlock leaps from the chair following her out the door and up the seventeen steps. 

The flat he finds himself in is fascinating. Unlike Mycroft’s neatly ordered house with priceless antiques and modern furnishings, this place looks lived in. There is a microscope on the kitchen table, knick-knacks scattered everywhere and a playpen (with toys!) in the middle of the living room (for a toddler!). There is even a real skull (human!) sitting on the mantel of the fireplace! 

With alarm, he asks, “Did I have a child?” 

Mrs. Hudson breaks down laughing. “Oh, Sherlock – no – that’s for your flatmate’s child – your godchild – Rosamund, or as we like to call her – Rosie.” 

Oh wow, he has a godchild. 

He moves on. The door to the room in front of him seems familiar. Smells familiar. Oh. This might be his bedroom. Turning the knob and pushing the door open, he is met with the most organized room in the flat. There’s a periodic table on the wall. It makes this entire situation feel  _ real. _ The wardrobe is full of suit jackets, shirts and trousers. The sock index. Even his pants are organized by colour. All the articles of clothing are far too big for him. Things that he had worn, but yet can not wear at the present moment. He finds a violin case and boxes containing sheet music, doodled on manuscript paper and recordings – presumably from musicians he liked. He cannot find his laptop, nor his phone. It’s disappointing from that perspective. But when he walks to the desk, he finds some notes in a drawer. 

***

_ He’s avoiding me. Not answering my texts or my calls. I’ve even tried visiting Whitehall and the Diogenes at irregular intervals, but he always makes himself scarce. Even Anthea gives me a pitiful and worried look! Anthea!  _

***

_ I called Mummy today, asking her about him. She doesn’t want to talk about him. Clearly they aren’t over the whole business. She says she hadn’t spoken to him at all since that visit in the office where they had called me the grown up. Ridiculous. Anthea has been arranging all of their visits with her.  _

***

_ I went to Whitehall again. He isn’t there. Instead, I talked to Anthea. Asked her about him. She’s worried. Apparently he doesn’t sleep, has been hitting the drink hard and hasn’t been his perfect self. He is cracking. I am worried. She’s been trying to get him to go on sabbatical or to go see a shrink for PTSD before he makes a serious misstep with his job. _

***

_ Mycroft. I just wish you would let me help you for once! You’ve certainly tried to help me when I was incapable of helping myself. I am sorry for sending Lestrade your way the first day but I was a coward! _

***

_ He changed the security locks on his doors. Of course. What had I been thinking? The fucking clowns. I am sorry, Mycroft. That was cruel of me. I should have done better. Been better. Isn’t that all you have ever wanted from me? _

***

_ Memories keep emerging from the depths of my subconscious ever since Sherrinford. I feel like they aren’t mine. But they are. Alien fragments of experiences for me to reconcile. It’s difficult to escape the psychological defences that my younger self had employed to protect myself from feeling. Repression. Rationalization. Warping Victor into Redbeard into an Irish Setter. I’ve spent hours reading textbooks and papers on psychology. I just wish I could talk to someone. Someone who will understand. Someone that I trust. In lieu of that, I will find solace in scraps of paper.  _

***

_ Mycroft. I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize that we had been so close. I forgot. How could I have forgotten? You were the person I ran to when I was hurt. You never said ‘no’ to any of my crazy childish ideas. You made my wishes come true. I am remembering. You never forgot. You never tried to undo what I did to myself. You thought that it would hurt me more to know. So you carried the burden. Alone. Caring is not an advantage, you said to me years ago. I’ve always wondered what cruelty had befallen you to say such a thing. To make such an observation. _

_ But now I know.  _

_ I see.  _

_ That you’ve always cared. _

***

_ It’s funny, how some of this psych-rubbish sometimes makes sense. Like a broken analog clock that is right twice a day. Maybe more often than that. Reaction-formation. I adored you as a child. When I warped all those memories of Victor and her, I distorted that too. Adoration turned into resentment. You know… at the beginning I thought you let that happen to protect me. But I realize too – that you have a life that doesn’t revolve around me, and that you weren’t home during the time when I reprogrammed my memories.  _

_ I want to talk to you – Myc. You are the only person that can stabilize my mind. _

***

_ I don’t blame you Myc. For anything. You are hurting. I only made it worse for you over the years. Been utterly selfish. Perhaps… I am no better than her.  _

_ If I could take back everything I’ve done and said, I would.  _

_ I would pay any price.  _

***

_ I took a case today. For the first time since Sherrinford. Murder at a laboratory in Cambridge. My old stomping grounds. There’s something funny going on in there. I am not quite sure what at the moment. Anthea called me today, told me you stayed at the office for almost forty-eight hours straight and almost had to physically drag you out of your office. Scary woman! After I finish this case, I am going to tackle the Case of the British Government. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Myc. I won’t let you. Things must be dire if Anthea is voluntarily calling me.  _

***

_ Been avoiding Molly like the plague. I guess I can’t be a hypocrite and lecture you about the topic of avoidance. John asks me to go talk to her, but no… it’s not going to be a fun conversation. I haven’t done any experiments with cadaver parts since we moved back into Baker Street. Meanwhile, I haven’t made any headway with this murder. It’s frustrating. Maybe Sherrinford has made me lose my marbles too. We should all be committed.  _

***

He can hear voices outside. Mrs. Hudson. Dr. Watson. Footsteps getting closer to the door. Sherlock shoves the papers hastily back into the drawer face down. If he had written this, it’s something he would not want other people to see. The only other person who should read these is Mycroft. In fact, when he finally understands what has fully happened to his older self – he ought to give these writings to Mycroft. He’s gained some understanding, but now he has a million more questions. He had been right that something had happened. Another nasty plot hatched by his sister that had undone something to his memory. 

Is this not frustrating? Sherlock muses. To regain memories from the past, only to forget the memories of his future. He had hurt Mycroft. Forgotten his affection. He needs to do better. His older self wants to make amends for his selfishness. In his papers, he wrote that he had been willing to pay any price. Is this a price? That he would have to grow up again? 

The door opens, and Sherlock turns to see Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson looking in. 

“Did you satisfy your curiosity?” Mrs. Hudson asks, as the doctor looks unsure about what to say.

“Yes, thank you – Mrs. Hudson. Could… could I help you with making lunch?” 

“Of course!” She gives him a smile. 

“He’s grown up a lot.” Dr. Watson remarks. He then looks at Sherlock. “Hey, Sherlock – if you’ve grown tired of your brother – you can always come live here.” 

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. 

Mycroft needs him. He needs him. 

Dr. Watson shakes his head. If Sherlock could trust his deductions, he would say that the man is disappointed in his answer. Whatever. The doctor then says to Mrs. Hudson with a chuckle. “Looks like the ‘ice’ man isn’t as icy as we thought he is.” 

Sherlock wants to say something to defend his brother. But, somehow – it’s probably better to keep silent for now. Dr. Watson doesn’t seem to be fond of Mycroft. But then… he hadn’t been either… and it makes him sad. 

_ Adoration turned into resentment.  _

What a horrible sentence!

Mrs. Hudson notices. “Come – Sherlock – let’s go make some lunch – how does sandwiches and chips sound? We will make some for your brother.”

“Okay.” Sherlock agrees – and he follows Mrs. Hudson back downstairs. 


	9. Where they go skating (or where Sherlock makes a promise)

“How was it?” Sherlock asks his brother as he focuses on lacing up his rental skates – making sure that they are tight. 

Mycroft is confused. “How was what?” 

“Your session with the psychologist.” 

“Oh.” Mycroft furrows his brows as he ties his laces in a neat bow. He sighs. One of the main focuses of these cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) sessions is exposure. Rewriting and re-experiencing the trauma of Sherrinford. And analyzing it. It’s bloody exhausting. Emotionally and physically. The last thing he wants to do is to talk about it again. At least today. He answers honestly instead – feeling the need to reward his brother for caring. “Intense. Exhausting.”

“What do you do there?” Sherlock asks curiously, his cheeks already flushed from the cold. 

“We talk. Write. Analyze my feelings. Today we focused on my inappropriate responses to environmental stimuli and specific thoughts. Then we did breathing and relaxing exercises.” Mycroft stands up on his skates – ready to head out to the ice rink of the Canary Wharf. The exercises, he had thought, had been a little silly, but he had felt better afterwards. Somewhat.

Sherlock throws another question. “What kind of responses, big brother?” At Mycroft’s reluctance, he adds earnestly. “I… just want to know – brother. I want to help.” He stands up too, and grabs his brother’s leather-clad hand. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“I know, Lock. It’s hard for me.” Mycroft gives a little shake of his head. “You are helping. By being here.” He then turns to look at Sherlock – squatting as he does so to meet his brother at eye-level. “You are  _ never  _ a nuisance. You are  _ my  _ menace. There’s a difference.” Smiling, Mycroft stands back up – ruffling Sherlock’s toque-covered hair as he does so. His brother looks adorable all kitted out in the wintry clothes Anthea had bought. A blue toque adorned with a ridiculous pom-pom sitting on top of his wildly curling locks. A blue scarf that resembles his old one. A dark winter coat. Blue woolen mitts. “But, if you think you need to know – brother, it’s things like avoiding certain situations, being anxious and getting stuck on certain thoughts. Ruminating. Come – let’s skate as we talk.” 

Sherlock follows his brother as he walks awkwardly in his skates. He doesn’t recall having skated before at any point in his life. The rink has a few people gliding about in it while the strains of some popular songs are being piped in from somewhere. It isn’t too crowded, considering that it’s a weekday afternoon. All Sherlock can hope is that he could keep up with Mycroft to have a conversation. And to not fall flat on his face. That would be embarrassing. His brother steps onto the ice lightly with ease. 

“It will be alright, Lock.” Mycroft reassures at Sherlock’s hesitation. “Come. You will pick it up quickly.” He offers a hand, and Sherlock takes it. 

Shakily, Sherlock steps out onto the ice, and his brother holds him up when he feels himself slipping. 

Mycroft jests. “Maybe you will be doing those fancy jumps next time.” At Sherlock’s skeptical look, Mycroft grins. “You think you can stand now?” 

Sherlock nods. His brother tells him to march forward – and soon he finds himself gliding alongside his brother without feeling like he’s going to fall although he has a death grip on Mycroft’s fingers. There’s a rhythm to it – and Sherlock finds himself remembering Mycroft teaching him how to dance in the drawing room. Fun, those times had been. The words he had read from earlier reverberate in his head.  _ Mycroft. I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize that we had been so close. I forgot. _ Indeed, how could he have forgotten? But why dwell on the past? The question catches him off guard and he stumbles, almost bringing down Mycroft with him. 

“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft stops abruptly, looking at his brother who had fallen on the ice. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just feel silly.” Sherlock tries to stand up and he slips back down. “Ugh.” He tries again, and succeeds – reaching for Mycroft’s hand. 

“You looked like you were deep in thought.” Mycroft observes, as Sherlock brushes the bits of ice off his knees. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Shrewdly, Sherlock asks. “How about a thought for a thought?”

“You drive a hard bargain, little brother.” Mycroft gives him an incredibly fond look. “How about questions? You ask one, and I will answer – and then I will ask you one… hm?”

“How old are you, Myc?” Sherlock starts off with something easy.

“You want to play it that way?” Mycroft huffs, before starting to skate again – taking little brother with him. “Forty-four, Lock.” Even without looking, he can sense Sherlock trying to politely not react. “You could have figured it out from the date.”

Sherlock shrugs – mentally noting that he is thirty-seven. A scary age! “Better ask you to be sure. Maybe this is a different universe.” 

“Ha.” Mycroft asks his question. “What did you do today at Baker Street while I was gone?”

“I asked if I could look at my flat upstairs. Mrs. Hudson indulged me. Then we made lunch for everyone.” Sherlock is deliberately sparse on the details. “Did you quit your job because of the PTSD?” 

“Lock – I didn’t quit my job. I am on a temporary leave. But – it wasn’t the only reason why I stopped working.” 

They skate onwards, Mycroft letting Sherlock’s hand go for stretches in order to let him practice on his own. After Mycroft teaches him how to stop, Sherlock inquires. “Is the reason why you stopped working because of me?”

“Yes… Lock. It was either that, or let you stay with Dr. Watson.” Mycroft admits – and there is no way in hell he would have let his brother stay with the doctor in this vulnerable state. Not after the three incidents of violence that Dr. Watson had inflicted. “But, Lock – I don’t have any regrets –”

“You don’t like Dr. Watson very much, do you? Mrs. Hudson said we are good friends…”

“No, I can’t say that I like your flatmate, Sherlock. You –” Mycroft swallows the sentence. His brother doesn’t need to know that his behaviour toward him is worse around his flatmate. As if he had something to prove to Dr. Watson. 

Sherlock needs to form his own opinion on Dr. Watson. 

“I…” Sherlock blinks. “I was ghastly toward you, wasn’t I, Myc? As an adult?” 

At Mycroft’s hesitation, Sherlock shakes his head sadly. “I was. I figured. Mrs. Hudson implied it. And John doesn’t seem to like you.”

This is interesting. Mycroft thinks. None of that emotional numbing or any of those other psychological defense mechanisms that Sherlock had gradually begun to employ shortly after Victor’s death is evident in his brother this time around. Sherlock is still emotionally intuitive. But perhaps… whatever this deaging agent is – it probably isn’t perfect. There are probably aspects of Sherlock’s adult self in that ten year-old body. 

Mycroft says firmly. “I don’t hold it against you – brother. Don’t feel guilt, Lock. I won’t have it.” 

“We… we can make new memories, right – Myc?” 

“Yes. That’s what I wanted to do with you, Lock.” Mycroft agrees readily. Somehow – he has the feeling that Sherlock had stumbled upon something at Baker Street that has given him more insight into the matter. And that asking him about it would be useless. There is some cunning in this ten year-old version of his brother. “Should we get dinner soon? There’s a nice Japanese around here – and no – Lock, we’ve eaten more than enough fish & chips over the last week to last for a year.” 

“I’ve never had Japanese. Isn’t that like raw stuff?” Sherlock asks as they skate toward the exit. 

“It’s a whole mix of things – actually. You liked it as an adult.” Mycroft informs. “Quite a lot, actually – judging by your credit card bill.” 

“You still paid for my bills?”

“Well… on occasion – you do have a hobby of stealing my cards – brother mine. Sometimes I let you use them for a while before I actually cancel them.” 

“Myc – I sound like a terrible adult.” Sherlock says critically as they walk off the rink. “Why did you let me get away with all that?”

“Oh, Lock – it’s a lot of things.” Mycroft sits down on the bench to remove his skates. 

“Because I am your menace?” Sherlock asks cheekily.

“That too.” 

At the fond look Mycroft gives him, Sherlock wraps his arms around his brother in a hug. 

A leather gloved hand pets Sherlock’s head, and he hears his brother whisper. “You will always be my menace, Lock.”

* * *

Clad in a set of comfortable blue dinosaur pyjamas, Sherlock brushes his teeth in the loo. In the mirror, he could see the stepstool that he had used a week ago to help him reach the sink. Wow. He had grown a lot in a short while. And his hair too – so long, wild and curly that it had reached past his shoulders. A true lion’s mane. Giggling, he mimes a lion roaring – the toothpaste making him look rabid. His brother had offered to take him to a coiffeur, but Sherlock had adamantly refused. He dreaded the very idea of having someone that isn’t Mycroft touch him.

After spitting and rinsing, he stalks off to the bedroom – a jaguar on the prowl. His brother is sitting on the bed – cross-legged, taking what looked like deep breaths. He looks – meditative like a monk – although Sherlock knows his brother is no monk. Sherlock prowls some more, before making a spectacular leap onto the bed – catching prey. In this case, a pillow. 

“No wildlife on the bed, Lock.” His brother reprimands fondly. “And leave the pillows alone.”

“Mrawr!” Sherlock presents his complaint, before crawling over to his brother. “Whatcha doing?” He peers upwards at Mycroft. 

“Breathing.” Mycroft inhales again, before doing another long exhale. Five seconds. 

“Breathing is essential to life, brother.” Sherlock remarks – his tone all smartarse. 

“My homework.” Mycroft cannot help but to hug his brother to his chest. God. He’s going to miss this cuddly version of Sherlock. It’s inevitable. His brother is growing up quickly – and he could hardly imagine an older Lock wanting to cuddle like this. Nor would he want to. Sherlock – regardless of his ‘The Virgin’ moniker would suss out his deepest secret in seconds. Even then, Mycroft is curious. He wants to find out what his brother’s thoughts are as a bratty adolescent and as a troubled young adult. Well, providing that Sherlock still wanted to talk to him at that point. He has hope, but not too much. 

“You are thinking.” Sherlock says accusingly. “Isn’t the purpose of these exercises to relax?” 

“You are right.” Mycroft presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek while one of his hands is running through his brother’s wild but silky locks – wondering if he would have to be the one to trim Sherlock’s curls before he ends up like Rapunzel. 

“Myc? Why don’t you teach me too, then we can do them together.” Sherlock slips out of Mycroft’s arms and sits at the headboard amongst the pillows. 

Mycroft takes a breath. He is touched that his brother is willing to help him. Scooching over, he sits across from his brother and shows him two ways to breathe. Regular inhale, five seconds out. The second: Five second inhale. Hold. Five seconds exhale. Relax. He isn’t even sure how long they sit together like this – focusing on such a basic necessity of life. They breathe in tandem – filling the room with the sounds of their breaths. How could their relationship be so easy? Like this. Mycroft marvels. Well, once upon a time – during Sherlock’s actual childhood – it had been like this. Big and little brother – doing everything together. Victor – the neighbouring goldfish – would join them and life had been idyllic. Mycroft doesn’t think he can go back to the old antagonistic days. That would kill him. For sure. 

Sherlock had fallen back into the pillows, looking up at the ceiling. “Mm… I do feel relaxed, Myc. I guess – we do this every night?”

“Actually, I am supposed to do this twice a day, little brother.” Mycroft reaches for a sheet of paper on the nightstand and makes a neat little tick in a box. He then writes the date and time before scoring out of a hundred how tense he is after having done the breathing exercises. 

“And all this will eventually make your nightmares go away, Mycroft?” 

“I hope so. It’s one of many things I have to do, little brother. PTSD does have a somewhat known organic pathology behind it. And this therapy has been shown to reverse it.”

“Ooh, do tell!” Sherlock turns to look at him – his eyes twinkling brightly. 

“Oh, Lock – do you really want a neuroscience and psychology lecture at –” He glances at the analog clock ticking away at the bedside. “Midnight?” 

“Just tell me the basics, Professor Mycroft.” Sherlock grins when Mycroft reaches over for another sheet of paper from the packet that he had been given for his cognitive behaviour therapy. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes at his new nickname. “Professor Mycroft?”

“Yes, now hurry up and teach so we can go to bed!” 

“Menace.” Mycroft shakes his head before allowing Sherlock to sit in his lap to listen to him lecture briefly about aberrant communication amongst the different parts of the brain.

* * *

Sherlock bounds down the stairs the next morning with Ching Shih hot on his tail – eager for breakfast after having done some more breathing exercises with Mycroft. They both scamper into the kitchen, heading for the cupboard that holds all the cat food. 

“Chicken or seafood – today – Ching?”

“Mrowr!” 

“Seafood it is!” Sherlock grabs the appropriate tin and prepares Ching Shih’s breakfast – dumping the contents into a paw-print patterned bowl. He also gets her a bowl of water and places both bowls on the floor. “Eat up!” He strokes her soft fur as Ching Shih takes a dignified sniff at the food, before deigning to eat it. 

“Should I make breakfast, Ching? Myc always does.” Sherlock muses. 

Ching Shih looks up and remarks. “Yow!”

“You think I should give it a go? I saw Myc do a fry up yesterday. I think I can do that – without setting the house on fire... “

“Yow!” She reiterates before turning back to her food, signalling the end to the audience.

“Hm…” Sherlock leaps up and opens the fridge, contemplating how barren it looks. They will have to go out again. Maybe they could have more Japanese food. He had loved the sashimi with wasabi! That delightful burning sensation in the nose! But in the fridge, there are two eggs left, along with some sausages, mushrooms and a tomato. He takes out all the ingredients – washes the tomato and mushrooms – finds a cutting board and a knife – and proceeds to cut. 

He wonders what they are going to do today. He’s eleven now. And he realizes how fun it is to have a big brother that has time to spend. And money. In his memories, he had recalled this time being a lonely period in his first childhood. Mycroft had gone off to university – and Sherlock had felt sad. Sad to the point where Mummy couldn’t get him out of bed. Mycroft had sent him letters, but he had refused to respond to them – feeling rather betrayed. Even though – he now feels silly thinking about it. Mycroft had no choice in the matter. He finishes chopping everything and goes to find the frying pan and some canola oil. 

“Oh, Lock – are you making breakfast?” 

Sherlock turns to see his brother – dressed in shirt, trousers and waistcoat. No tie. “No, I am making a rocket to Mars.” He jests instead – and Mycroft shakes his head. “You can make toast.” Sherlock suggests. 

“I guess I could.” Mycroft gives him a genuine smile, before walking off to find the bread. 

Sherlock focuses on frying things, adding a pinch of salt and pepper as needed. It’s surprisingly easy. Grabbing a pair of plates he distributes the food into two. By that time, Mycroft had poured them both a glass of milk, set the table and had the toast stacked up neatly on a plate. 

Mycroft smiles fondly at his brother when he brings the plates of food. God. He hadn’t been expecting this. Even he is aware that Sherlock only does chores back at Baker Street under serious duress. And – remarkably, it looks edible. He spears a piece of sausage and he praises. “My compliments to the chef.”

Sherlock beams. “I didn’t burn the house down.”

“You said it, not me.” Mycroft winks at him. 

“Myc – can I ask you something?” Sherlock asks tentatively after they had dedicated a few minutes to eating.

“You are asking me something, Lock.” Mycroft teases.

“Last night… before we started doing all those breathing exercises – what were you thinking about?” Sherlock had noticed the change in his brother’s eyes – a sadness had lurked within them, before the mask had slid back into place.

“Lock…” Mycroft sighs. “It’s nothing important.”

“Brother.” Sherlock is serious now. He leans forward, his forearms resting on the dining table. “Are you worried that I might revert back to old habits? And  _ forget _ you all over again?”

Now – this is startling. How accurately Sherlock is able to read him. More and more, Mycroft is certain that there is more of the thirty-seven year old Lock in this young body than it appears. But, why would the older Sherlock care about such things? He had got his happy ever after – being able to finally be a family unit with Dr. Watson and the little one. In fact – Mycroft is starting to dread it – that one day Sherlock would ask to go back to Baker Street for good. 

“Myc.” Sherlock reaches forward further, grabbing his brother’s hand. “I promise I won’t forget you, brother. I swear.” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “You don’t know –”

“Mycroft. Please. Believe me. I might not be in possession of all my memories – but I can promise you this. I will stay with you till… the end.” Sherlock struggles to find his words to express what he wants to say. “It doesn’t matter what you have done. Or how you think you’ve failed me.”

“How… are you so certain?” Mycroft asks in complete disbelief – wondering what his little brother would think of his deepest and darkest secret that must be kept a secret at all costs. 

“I found something. When I was at Baker Street the other day. I wasn’t going to tell you until I could understand better the context of what had happened. But – I don’t want you to go through our time together and think that thirty-seven year old me hates your guts. I really don’t. And… he doesn’t. I found papers. Of his thoughts before he turned into me. He feels regretful, remorseful, sad – that he couldn’t help you through your PTSD. He spent a lot of time trying to meet with you – but I guess…” Sherlock chuckles a little. “That’s the avoidance you were talking about yesterday. You were avoiding him. Or rather… me. He even called Mummy.” 

“He… even called Mummy.” Mycroft finds himself repeating the words. Sherlock avoids Mummy like the plague. If that isn’t a sign of brotherly affection, Mycroft really doesn’t know what would be. 

Sherlock nods – his curls literally bouncing. “Yeah. He did.” And then he says. “I am going to stop actively trying to figure out what happened in my life. It seems that with every day that passes, I am remembering what I need to remember. Let’s be happy, brother! Isn’t it December? Should we not do Christmas? I will be an adult by then – if I am aging at the same rate as the last week or so.”

“Sherlock… are you patient enough for your memories to be returned back to you passively like that?” Mycroft asks – having recovered from his disbelief. 

Shrugging, his brother says. “I can try. Come brother – let’s go get everything one would need for Christmas. Like a tree! Oh, we can bake biscuits. If there’s snow – let’s build a snowman! Or even sledging! Make an actual Christmas feast for the two of us. And – we can go dancing!”

_ Dancing? Christmas Dinner for Two?  _ Mycroft feels like his head is going to explode. With an adult Sherlock! This is dangerous territory. Yet – it’s all he’s ever wanted – to spend meaningful time with his most favourite person in the world.


	10. Beautifully broken things

Had it been murder? Sherlock is positive that it had been. He paces back and forth on the Persian carpet in the room designated as the Reading Room. It is a cozy space that Mycroft takes great pride in. With comfortable armchairs and an electric fireplace. And an eclectic selection of books overflowing the shelves. He thinks back to nineteen-eighty-nine. Young kid from Brighton. Swimming tournament. A drowning after an odd fit. The missing shoes had definitely sealed it. He brushes his long hair out of his eyes – wondering if he should suck it up and brave a visit to Mycroft’s coiffeur. Or, perhaps ask Mycroft to do his worst. Definitely not a tragic accident. This Carl Powers case. 

_ Thump! _

Sherlock turns around and shakes his head at Ching Shih prowling the shelves containing Mycroft’s precious books. 

“You know, if you weren’t so cute, Myc would have banished you from the house by now – Ching.” Sherlock remarks conversationally as he bends down to pick up the book she had carelessly knocked down onto the floor. 

“Yowl-yow!” Ching Shih vocalizes passionately before disdainfully walking away.

_ A Mysterious Affair at Styles. _ An Agatha Christie. Sherlock frowns. His brother has a great fondness for classic and old-school literature. And that included mystery books – even though with their intellects, they could easily map out several pathways the mystery could go and pick the most likely option. But then again, Mycroft  _ liked  _ film noir detective movies. Sherlock shakes his head once again – he had fallen asleep last night against Mycroft’s shoulder while they had been watching one. He puts the book back. 

_ Thump! _

Sherlock sighs as he reaches for the next victim.  _ Hamlet.  _ Fortunately Ching Shih had knocked down the paperback and not the expensive leatherbound version that is sure to be around here somewhere. Carefully he places the book back where it belonged. 

_ Thump! _

“Ching Shih, this isn’t funny!” Sherlock exclaims with some annoyance.

Ovid’s  _ Metamorphoses.  _ Wow, Ching has rather high-brow tastes. 

“Mrowwwlllll!” Ching Shih almost sounds offended. Flicking her tail, she leaps gracefully off the bookshelf. 

“Ah, Lock – there you are.” Mycroft peers into the room. “You ready?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sherlock puts the Ovid back before straightening out his suit. “Was just thinking.”

“About what?” Mycroft presses.

“The Carl Powers case. I don’t know if you remember…”

“Oh, of course I remember. You solved it eventually in your adulthood.” 

Sherlock finally turns to look at Mycroft – who is dressed in his full regalia of three-piece suit. His finest evening wear. Damn. Big brother looks good. All long-limbs in that tightly-tailored suit with his hair styled impeccably. His brother had certainly aged well. “Oh, did I? The shoes were important, weren’t they?”

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles fondly at his brother – now fourteen – who looks like an angel with all those dark curls tumbling carelessly down his shoulders. “And what was Mia yowling about, anyways?”

“Oh, she kept knocking down your books. She’s got the most intriguing taste.”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft gestures for Sherlock to exit the room, as they are running late. 

“_The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Metamorphoses._ _Hamlet._” Sherlock offers. He then asks, “Did I ever find those shoes, brother?”

Mycroft suddenly laughs. Uncanny. Indeed. This cat.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asks quizzically as they both proceed to walk out and down the stairs. 

“Mia. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or not, but all those books are notable for poisonings.” 

“Well, she did look at me as if I was an everyday idiot. Oh – Mycroft – you don’t mean to say that Powers was poisoned?” Sherlock exclaims in abject disbelief.

“Botulism toxin in his eczema medication.” Mycroft gives away the answer, seeing that Sherlock would probably have to wait a month before he could be old enough to remember the answer. Or rather, find the answer in Dr. Watson’s blog. Sherlock hadn’t read those posts yet. In fact, he is sure that Sherlock hadn’t even searched up his name on a search engine, despite having access to a top-of-the-line secure phone. Mycroft wonders how long will Sherlock hold out before curiosity tempts him to do so.

“Damn. Well, there goes that mystery.” Sherlock gives a little toss of his head as he grabs his coat, scarf, toque and mitts from the coat stand. “So, why do you have these tickets, My?”

Mycroft swallows as he looks away from his brother – having looked too long when Sherlock had shaken his head – too busy admiring how Sherlock’s locks had swayed and bounced with that simple motion. Personally, he is hoping that Sherlock would keep his hair this long. Already, he had stopped mentioning the coiffeur. Mummy would be appalled. “Well. It’s been customary for me and sometimes you to bring our parents to see a musical semiannually –”

“Oh. And – something happened between our parents and you… Really, Mycroft? You are the goody-two-shoes between the two of us!” And he had apparently been in Mummy’s good books as of recently – judging by those notes found back at Baker Street. Bizzare.

“Well, I can’t believe I am going with you – brother. You would do almost anything to escape these performances back in the day.” Mycroft opens the front door where the cool winter air hits his face. 

Sherlock shrugs. “I would go anywhere you go, My. But – we are going to that indoor waterpark I found online earlier today. I insist. Perhaps next week?” 

“Must we?” Mycroft puts up a token fight – although internally he had melted at Sherlock’s first sentence. He would go wherever Lock would or wanted to go even if it killed him. 

“Oh yes, we are.” Sherlock grins widely as he walks outside where a cab is waiting for them. “It will be fun!”

* * *

“No wine, brother?” Sherlock asks as he takes a spoonful of pistachio gelato. 

Mycroft answers. “No.” 

They had finished watching the musical which is Mummy’s favourite:  _ Cats. _ And now Sherlock and he are sitting at a posh Italian café, gorging on calorie-dense but decadent Italian dessert. Or rather, Sherlock is. Besides the pistachio gelato, there is a slice of cheesecake covered with the café’s signature hot chocolate drizzle and a cup of smooth, thick and rich hot chocolate – the perfect antidote to a chilly late December night. In front of Mycroft, there is a cup of steaming hot apple and cinnamon tea. 

“I don’t think you’ve touched a drink at all since I’ve been at your house.” Sherlock frowns – distractingly brushing an errant curl away from his face. “And you have a lot of it on your wine racks and in your display cases. Scotch I think is your usual preference?”

“Lock. I had to stop when you started living with me. It was… becoming a problem. The drinking.” Mycroft sighs deeply at the admission. Is it really necessary to burden his little brother with all of his problems? But he knows – Sherlock, the ever so tenacious one – would prod and pry until he got what he wanted. At his brother’s  _ tell-me-more _ look, he continues. “Oh god. I would come home after work… and –” Damn. Is he really telling his brother all of this? In a few days time – Sherlock would be finding out about his own extensive history of substance abuse. “And… drink until I fell into a stupor. You see – that way – I couldn’t think anymore. Or dream. I wasn’t a full-blown alcoholic or anything… it –” He shakes his head. The further he goes on, the worse it sounds. And is. Look at him still making pathetic excuses for himself! Shit. Should he warn his brother about his years of IV drug use? “I was barely functional –”

“I know.” Sherlock nods solemnly.

“You… know?” Mycroft is stunned. “How…?” 

“The notes. Anthea told me, or rather – older me. You weren’t sleeping. You were drinking. I think she was trying to insinuate that she was worried that you were going to make a costly mistake if things had continued the way they were.” 

Oh dear. It’s even worse than he had feared. If Anthea had been talking to Sherlock behind his back. She must had been at her wits’ end. Mycroft rests his forehead heavily against his palms. Perhaps, he is lucky that he hadn’t fucked up too badly before he had left – he vaguely recalls Anthea catching and fixing some of his minor mistakes during the last week or two at his job. 

He feels incredibly vulnerable right now. Raw. Human. A big brother always wants to appear invincible in front of their younger siblings. 

“My – it’s fine.” Sherlock reaches over to grab his hand. 

Mycroft simply stares at his brother’s hand. The elegant long fingers. How masculine they look in comparison to his own. The skin is flawless – although Mycroft knows that the older Lock would have various scars accumulated from his adventures and misadventures. 

“Have some chocolate.” Sherlock pushes the heavy ceramic cup over to him. “It’s amazing.”

Mycroft gives Sherlock an incredulous look, before scooping some of the chocolate with the spoon that Sherlock had used without a word. From diet jokes to actual offerings of chocolate. 

This doesn’t feel real. Maybe he’s still trapped in Eurus’ cell and this is all a cruel joke. Perhaps… he is waiting for  _ something  _ to shatter this illusion. To wake him up from whatever hallucinatory sedative the East Wind had injected into him.

He wants to cry. His brother cares. Really, truly does. There’s no way that this is fourteen-year-old Lock’s doing. Even with those informative papers. The essence of his thirty-seven-year-old self is in there. Mycroft is certain. He’s too mature. This is the man who had been willing to shoot himself to save him. The one who had tried tirelessly to chase him down, despite Mycroft using his surveillance capabilities to avoid him at all cost. Ironic. He knows. 

Maybe... that fond look between them at Eurus’ last game had… meant something. Not the way Mycroft had wanted it to mean, but true fraternal sentiment. 

Suddenly he feels warm arms wrap around his shoulders. Sherlock. So close that he could smell all those fancy hair products that he had used earlier in the day and all the sweets that he had just indulged in. So close that his long curls are tickling Mycroft’s cheek.

“It’s alright, big brother. I am here. You are okay. No one is going to take me away.” Sherlock whispers – although he isn’t sure that Mycroft is hearing him at all. The whole episode had looked like a dissociative one – often common in PTSD. 

It hurt though, knowing that such a simple kind gesture from him had meant so much. He must have been an awful little brother back then. 

“I know. I am sorry, Lock – I just… needed a moment.” Mycroft says minutes later after having recovered his equilibrium. 

“Should we go?” Sherlock asks – quickly finishing the rest of the cheesecake. From his pocket, he fishes out a thin leather wallet and puts an appropriate number of notes down. Mycroft had given him some money just in case when he had turned twelve. He pulls out his phone, unlocks it and taps a few times to hail a cab on an app.

Mycroft nods, quickly standing up and putting on his coat. He breathes. In and out. Slowly. Good Lord. Did he really have a mental breakdown in front of Sherlock? He shrugs before letting himself be led out by his apparently very capable brother. 

* * *

“Oh, you are back!” 

Sherlock turns away from the window with his Strad in hand to see Dr. Watson making his way through the living room after having shed his winter outerwear. The tired air around the doctor suggests a regular eight-to-four shift at the local surgery. A little sigh of exasperation upon sitting indicates that he had a rough debate with one of his patients regarding flu vaccination just before he had departed. Shrugging, Sherlock plucks the strings of his violin – feeling a need to fill the air with some sort of sound. 

“How old are you anyways now?” Dr. Watson asks, before collapsing into an old floral-patterned armchair. Sherlock can feel him staring at his hair… evidently his older self had never worn his locks in such a long and wild fashion. 

“Fifteen, today – Dr. Watson.” 

The notes of a memorable number from yesterday’s musical float into his mind – Sherlock hums them as Dr. Watson inquires, looking pointedly at the violin. “Any good?”

“Very good.” Sherlock gives the middle-aged doc a smirk, before reaching over to pick up his bow from the mantel and begins to play the melody from  _ Memory.  _ It’s strange… he feels rather like a Jellicle cat – Grizabella – who had been picked to begin a new life. Damn, he had paid quite a bit of attention to the musical yesterday… Well – of course – he would eventually be himself again. But would he really? Certainly this experience is going to change him for better or for worse. He ends the piece – just as Dr. Watson asks another question.

“You staying then?” 

“No. I am only here because Myc has an appointment. I am going to go eat dinner with him after.” Sherlock shakes his head. The only time slot that the busy psychologist had free today for his brother had been a late one. And they had plans. Fun ones. 

“He’s  _ Myc  _ now? And I am Dr. Watson?” It’s almost funny how bemused Dr. Watson appears. And even slightly annoyed. “I’ve only ever heard you call him Mycroft or brother.” 

Oh, Mycroft. Sherlock sighs. By the tone of Dr. Watson’s voice – it is clear that Sherlock had an antagonistic relationship with his brother. And – likely – his flatmate would join in on the antagonism. 

“And you used to chase him out of the flat – with violin screeches, insults and provocations.” 

“Yes, I get it. I was nasty to him. I regret it.” Sherlock says firmly. Even if he doesn’t remember doing so.

“What do you two even  _ do  _ together?” Dr. Watson is curious. 

Sherlock replies readily. “Things that everyone else does, I guess. Watch movies –”

At Dr. Watson’s skeptical look, Sherlock amends. “Well, he watches them, I sleep. Or keep my mouth shut.”

The doctor chuckles and then looks offended. “Hey! You never kept your mouth shut whenever I was watching  _ my  _ movies – if not to complain about how unrealistic the plot is, or to deduce the actors – you would spoil the ending!” 

Sherlock shrugs. “Well, I don’t know why my older self does what he does. It is what it is…” And then he adds, cautiously. “You don’t seem to like my brother much…”

Dr. Watson actually shakes his head. There is a serious look upon his face. “That might be true earlier in the year… with his arrogance, smugness and his heavy-handed surveillance and then there’s –” He sighs grimly. “I shouldn’t talk about it – no need to ruin your day – you will find out soon enough. Enjoy your adolescence. But do tell me one fun thing that you will be doing this week.” 

Sherlock grins. “We are going to a waterpark. You know – the ones with slides!” 

The doctor looks amazed. “Oh. I guess when the British government takes time off – he really does!” 

“The British government?” Sherlock asks – confused. 

“Oh, that’s what you sometimes call your brother when you want to be witty. He calls himself a minor government official – but even I know that’s not true…” 

“I know he’s an important man.”

“Indeed.” Dr. Watson gets up from the armchair. “I guess I better get dinner ready. Molly is going to show up soon with Rosie. Oh – you haven’t even seen Rosie yet – have you?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. He still can’t believe it. Had he voluntarily touched a baby? One of those crying, squealing creatures? “My goddaughter.”

“Yes! The most beautiful person in the world!” Dr. Watson beams. 

“Who is Molly?” Sherlock remembers her name from the series of papers last week –  _ Been avoiding Molly like the plague. _

“Oh – the pathologist who works at Bart’s who helps you with your cases and experiments sometimes. She’s a bit umm… sweet on you.”

“I am gay.” Sherlock says reflexively.

“Oh, so you really are! I’ve always wondered. But you did say girlfriends were not your area… although sometimes… I questioned it.” 

The sound of footsteps on the steps halts their conversation. Mycroft. 

“I guess I might see you next week.” Sherlock says – finally packing away his violin. He will take his instrument with him back to Mycroft’s house. 

“You sure you don’t want to stay and see your goddaughter?”

“Next time – perhaps. We have a reservation.” 

“Alright then. Take a picture of your brother in a pair of swimming trunks – please! Oh – or even going down a slide!” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the request before picking up his violin case – and heads out to meet his brother and to grab his winter clothes from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. 

* * *

“You do realize you are offering a drink to a minor?” Sherlock grins widely when his brother slides a piña colada across the slippery surface of their icy table. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Your ID says otherwise. I allow you to partake of one.” He picks up his own drink – a lychee-flavoured mocktail – and has a sip. 

Despite the coldness of  _ Bar Ice _ at Hyde Park, a warmth fills Sherlock as he takes a sip of the rum-based cocktail. Everything in here is made up of ice, from the bar, the furniture and the structural elements – with decorative ice sculptures scattered throughout the space. He wears a thick furry cloak given to the patrons of the establishment – and in his left arm, a ludicrously large teddy bear with a ribbon rests in its crook. Mycroft had proven his worth at the shooting booth. They had done a lot today after leaving Baker Street – carnival rides (talking Mycroft into going on them had been the best part), an acrobatics show, eaten their way around the fair (fish & chips, korean barbeque, a messy steak growler and a brownie) and wandered the Christmas Market, looking for trinkets – a bag of which sits at Mycroft’s feet. 

It’s strange – Sherlock reflects – such doings would have bored him to tears when he had actually been fifteen, but there is a great feeling of peace that seems to have settled within him. Is it his actual age and experience that is seeping through his adolescent body? Or is it… simply because he’s with Mycroft? 

He and Myc had been estranged by then. Strangers. His brother would have been twenty-two then – no doubt climbing the ranks at Whitehall. The most distinctive memory he has at that point of Mycroft had been at… was it a funeral? Great-Aunt Myra – or somebody? Muriel? He can see his brother standing somberly at the back – near the door – attired in funeral black. Gone was the chubby playmate who would have dropped anything to cater to Sherlock’s whims. Who had adored him. This Mycroft had an air of unapproachability – his eyes were cold and there had been no warm glance for Sherlock. Not even a glimmer of recognition for the past they had shared. 

It had hurt. A lot. Sherlock remembers. Of course, he had been the one to start ignoring Mycroft first… but still. When he had gone home the next day, he had fished out Mycroft’s old letters… read them with utmost care… and then burned them all in a fire outside. It had felt like a ritual of sorts. Sherlock had collected the wood, used paper for kindling and lit the fire with a flint. Like they had done in their youth. When the fire had grown sufficiently, Sherlock had thrown each letter individually in. Watching them dissolve into ashes. When the last letter had gone, a coldness that Sherlock had never felt before had perfused his body. The heat of the fire hadn’t helped at all. The atmosphere had felt more like a funeral than the actual one he had attended the previous day. Is this when Sherlock had begun to forget? He had long forgotten Victor and Eurus at that point. He exhales shakily. Guess he will find out in the coming days. 

At Mycroft’s inquisitive look, Sherlock offers. “Was thinking.” It’s not something he wants to discuss, having the sense that it would destroy the mood. 

Mycroft nods. There must be lots to think about for his brother – who is no doubt getting waves upon waves of memory thrown upon him. 

Fifteen had been the beginning of the end. Mycroft had gone home for something… a funeral. When he had walked into the church – he saw his brother. Who had grown like a weed since his absence. But – oh, the young man he had become! It had startled him. Thrown him in a way that nothing had ever done. And, Mycroft – at that point in his life – had already been thrown in a few hairy situations for the good of Queen and Country. 

A sense of utter calamity had descended upon him. And he had known intrinsically that nothing good would emerge out of this. The shields that he had reserved for fieldwork had reflexively been deployed. It would have been ruinous. For the both of them. When Sherlock’s beautiful eyes had met his at one point, Mycroft had seen the brief flash of pain that had crossed his face. Mycroft had been forced to harden his heart and avert his gaze. Two years later – the next time Mycroft had laid eyes on his brother – Sherlock had overdosed on intravenous heroin. 

Sherlock struggles to take a deep breath. Somehow – he knows Mycroft is thinking along the same lines as he had. He feels like he’s suffocating. Drowning. Time to change the topic of… conversation? Mutual thought. There’s no way he can survive a verbal discussion. Not when it feels like he had gone out and burned those letters yesterday. He could smell the acrid smoke – and the icy nature of the bar itself is not helping with the ice that had seemed to have replaced his blood. Desperately, he strings some words together to form a reliable question. “How was… your session today?” 

“The usual.” Mycroft sighs. “Difficult. The focus was on exposure and relaxation, little brother. Doing the things that I’ve been avoiding. But to be honest… I’ve been avoiding  _ living  _ before you came to live with me.”

“Ah. So I am your exposure therapy.” Sherlock nods with satisfaction – happy to be of use.

Mycroft smiles. “Yes. I considered this outing as an exposure as well.”

The warmth in Mycroft’s gaze chases away all the ice. Sherlock is starting to feel like himself again. Things will be okay. “I suppose you have new relaxation exercises you have to do everyday?”

Mycroft nods. “I will show them to you before we sleep tonight.” 

“Should we go?” Sherlock asks, glancing at his phone. “It’s almost closing time.”

“Of course.” Mycroft stands – taking the large bag of holiday trinkets with him, as does Sherlock. 

“Myc…?”

“Yes, Lock?”

“Let’s take a selfie before we go.” 

“Hm… and I thought you didn’t want pictures of you in this state.” Mycroft sounds surprised.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I want to. We should take more together in the coming days.” 

They put down their respective burdens on the table. Mycroft wraps one arm tight around Sherlock, and snaps a shot with his phone. 

“And…”

“Yes, Lock?”

“A hug?” 

Mycroft’s other arm wraps tightly around Sherlock. Sherlock exhales slowly, resting his head against his brother’s cloak-covered chest. He wants to cry. This is something that his true fifteen-year-old self had craved for on that fateful day. And hadn’t known it then.

His brother’s fingers are gently combing through his curls. 

“Things will be okay, Lock.” Mycroft whispers tenderly, having sensed his brother’s distress minutes ago although he remains uncertain about its source. The way that Sherlock had asked for a hug had been so tentative. As if – he had been expecting Mycroft to deny his simple request. He says firmly – remembering Sherlock’s promise the other day. “I will be with you until the end. Wherever and whatever that may be.” 

Sherlock dabs at his eyes, and Mycroft simply rocks him in his arms. 


	11. To cover with care

Sherlock examines the crook of his arm in disbelief. There are unsightly bruises. Scabs. Faint little puncture marks that adorn the once-pristine skin of his cubital fossa. Oh god. He did, didn’t he? Used intravenous drugs? 

Fuck, they are supposed to go to a waterpark in the next few days. Mycroft and he had decided to go all out and spontaneously fly to Germany at the last minute. They would get back in time to set up for their own personal Christmas holidays. How is he supposed to walk around partially naked with this colourful and stigmatizing disaster on his flesh? And… what is Mycroft going to say? Some of these wounds appear fresh, as if Sherlock had injected within the last few hours. Oh fuck. Sherlock jumps to his feet and dashes off to the nearest loo.

Certainly, he doesn’t look high. He blinks at his reflection in the mirror. His pupils are of normal size, he isn’t sweating – his muscles aren’t cramping. The only thing he is feeling is a growing sense of anxiety that gnaws threateningly at his stomach – but that is from being thrown abruptly into this situation aside from the discomfort radiating from his arm. Is it not bad enough that he knows what withdrawal feels like? The signs to look for? 

What had driven him to use, anyways? Misery? The inability to feel? Self-medication? Boredom? The tedium of his humdrum existence at Cambridge? He had gone to university then. For Chemistry. All of the above? God, is Mycroft going to kick him out? Fuck. But wait… Mycroft knows about this, doesn’t he? There’s a faint memory coming slowly into focus, of him being strung out on a disgusting mattress and Mycroft standing over him – frantic and desperate. And the smell of a hospital. Oh. 

He had overdosed at this age. 

Bloody hell. 

* * *

“Mrowl!” Mia rubs her head insistently against Mycroft’s leg. 

“Not now, Mia – I have to read this report.” Mycroft says placatingly – not taking his eyes off the desktop screen. Sure, he’s on sabbatical, but there are a few problems here and there that are far beyond any of his agents’ pay grades. He would like to finish this before Sherlock and he leave for Heathrow the next morrow. Mia will stay with Mrs. Hudson, who is only too delighted to cat-sit.

“Yow!” Mia is now batting at his left leg with her front paws. 

“Mia, no!” Mycroft reprimands firmly, trying to move his leg away from her flurry of paws and claws – in an attempt to save both his flesh and trousers. 

“Mrrrowl!” 

“What is it, Mia?” Mycroft finally turns his attention to the Bengal in resignation. “You can’t possibly be hungry, Sherlock’s just fed you breakfast. Your litter box was cleaned to your exacting standards. There’s water in your bowl. You don’t look ill –”

“Rrrrowwww!” 

“Okay, okay – I am coming.” Mycroft hastily closes his laptop before getting up from his comfortable chair – feeling rather hard done. 

Mia scampers out of Mycroft’s study without glancing back and then he remembers that Sherlock had mentioned that he had turned seventeen today at breakfast. Feeling a sense of urgency and dread, he runs after the cat.

* * *

The door to the bathroom is locked. Mycroft knocks.

“Lock! You in there?”

There is a tap running inside.

“Is there something wrong?” Mycroft tries again, feeling the urgency build – twisting his stomach into knots. Feeling that familiar terror course through him whenever little brother and drugs are concerned. Rationally, he knows – Lock hasn’t left the house, and there aren’t any of those illicit substances lying about for use. Rationality; however, is a poor balm. 

“No, Mycroft – it’s okay. It’s fine.” His brother’s voice is shaky. “I just…”

“Lock. I do know what happened when you were seventeen. Please. Just – let me in.”

“Myc…” There is a hesitation in Sherlock’s voice. Fear. 

Mycroft tries to keep his voice calm. “Unlock the door. Brother. Please. I promise – I won’t judge you.”

There is a long pause, before Sherlock finally unlocks the door with a click. Mycroft takes the handle and allows the door to swing open. 

“Oh Lock.” Mycroft whispers, wrapping his desperate-looking brother in his arms. Sherlock’s arm has been scrubbed raw and red. Sherlock had spent who knows how long trying to wash away the medley of track marks at different stages of healing. 

“I didn’t… I –”

“I know. You didn’t take anything.” Mycroft says reassuringly. 

“How do you –”

“Of course I know, you haven’t left the house, brother mine. Here, sit.”

Mycroft guides his brother to sit on the closed toilet seat. He gently takes his brother’s left wrist, and carefully extends the limb – Sherlock reluctantly letting him. 

“Scrubbing it raw isn’t going to make it go away.” Mycroft observes.

“I know. I just… wasn’t expecting that. I’ve had a few scars appear in the past few days, but nothing like this. But, Mycroft – it’s… hideous – how am I going to go –”

“We will make a trip to the mall today. Get you something waterproof to cover that over. Makeup – Lock. I suspect you are going to be dealing with this problem for a while… I have a cream that you can use upstairs to help minimize the scarring.” At Sherlock’s look of dismay, Mycroft says kindly, “We will deal with it together.” And then he asks – cautiously. “Do you feel like –”

Sherlock adamantly shakes his head, his curls swirling wildly. “No. Myc. I don’t. I really don’t.”

“Okay. Just so you know – if you do have an urge to use – come talk to me. No need to suffer in silence. Shall we go now? Or do you need a moment to recover?” Mycroft inquires kindly. He also adds, thoughtfully. “Better to go sooner rather than later, before the off-work crowd decides to go Christmas shopping.”

“No. It’s okay. We can go. Now. I don’t like going to the mall either, My.” Sherlock says quietly, feeling relieved at his brother’s reaction. There’s no anger or disappointment in Mycroft's features, just concern and worry. “You can put this in your exposure log as well.”

“I know.” Mycroft exhales. “Ever since…” Sherrinford. He swallows the word – as it would have no meaning to his brother. But he knows that Sherlock knows that he is referring to the traumatic events that had brought him to his knees. “The anxiety is worse. Although it wasn’t so bad when we went to Hyde Park the other day.” 

“It’s better when you are here.” Sherlock acknowledges – feeling stupidly sentimental. He can blame it on his older-self’s emotions. Or the approach of the holidays. Seventeen-year-old him didn’t do sentiment. Especially not after the pyre he had made from Mycroft’s letters. His heart might as well have been in that fire. Because not only had he deleted Eurus and Victor… he had deleted all his good memories of Mycroft on that fateful day. And to cover his hollowed being, he had adopted a cloak. A mask. Functional sociopathy. No more emotional investments. 

Of course, he hadn’t done it consciously then. But now – he sees. And he understands – that deletion isn’t the permanent process he once thought it was. It’s more akin to burying something six-feet under and forgetting about it, and a disturbance – like the shifting of tectonic plates – could unearth such memories. Like the event that Mycroft had alluded to.

“Lock.” Mycroft is on his knees as he gazes at his brother. Carefully, he places a hand against his brother’s cheek and uses a thumb to stroke a cheekbone, feeling the sharpness of that zygomatic arch beneath his skin. 

“I burnt all your letters.” Sherlock admits – his mouth and throat moving of their own accord. “When I was fifteen.”

Mycroft doesn’t need Sherlock to tell him that it had happened after Great-Aunt Muriel’s funeral. He knows now that it had been a lose-lose situation. His brother had never recovered from Eurus’ cruel actions. Mycroft’s indifference on that day had been the last straw – sending him on a spiral of self-destruction that spanned almost two decades. Himself – he had been too young, too inexperienced to deal with the discovery of the breadth of his own feelings. The sense of calamity – doom – that he had felt on that day had been a premonition: an inevitability. It explained much. Of Sherlock’s behaviour toward him in adulthood. Even the drug use. Despite this, a current of guilt courses through him. He should have done so much more for his brother. He should have handled things differently. He should have come home more often. 

“Mycroft. My. Myc.” 

He doesn’t realize that Sherlock had been trying to get his attention for the last minute or so. 

“I don’t blame you. For anything.” 

“Little brother mine. You do realize – this is only the beginning?” Mycroft reveals, his voice laden with gravity."

“I know. I can extrapolate that.” Sherlock looks hesitant, but since the wounds between them are already raw and bleeding, he adds. “In my notes at Baker Street – I expressed a wish. That I could make up for everything that I’ve done and said to you over the years, big brother. That I would be willing to pay any price. Perhaps… this is a manifestation of such a wish – as fanciful as it sounds. But I know – Mycroft – that if you are here – with me, reliving the past won’t be as bad.”

“Oh, Lock. No. I would never want you to pay penance like this.” Mycroft is horrified. “Or at all! All I ever wanted for you was for you to be happy and safe. And I failed you in every way possible.” 

“It is what it is.” Sherlock says in response. He stands up from the toilet. “I am going to go change.”

“Wear a t-shirt, so we don’t have to roll up your sleeves to try out the concealers.” Mycroft says just as Sherlock heads out the door. He stands up while brushing the dust off his trousers, dissatisfied with this entire conversation. 

* * *

“How does that look, Lock?” Mycroft asks – after surveying his handwork. 

Sherlock looks at his arm – his track marks covered meticulously by a blend of two concealers that his brother had applied. Further down, on his forearm – his skin had been used to try out different shades and brands of product. He doesn’t even know how long they’ve sat here, at the back of this high-end beauty shop, while Mycroft had patiently been doing this for him. There are no words to convey how beautiful it looks. Like unblemished skin. Sherlock is almost positive that his brother had discreetly paid a handsome tip to the store manager for letting them be back here in an empty room to avoid the stares of the other goldfish swimming around when he hadn’t been looking. 

His brother only looks fondly at him, gently petting his arm. “We will get these, and one of these – just in the odd case you get a tan.”

Sherlock swallows. Back then he wouldn’t have cared about his track mark scars at all… He had been too focused on getting his next high – or risk suffering through periods of withdrawal. And the truth likely is – that it wasn’t boredom or a lack of direction that had caused him to use. Those had been convenient excuses that had been so ingrained within himself that he had perceived them as real. With the added bonus of being the type that would drive big brother up the wall. “It… made me feel.”

“Feel?” Mycroft inquires.

“The drugs. Without them… I was just listless. Inert. Not alive. I… didn’t want to do anything, Mycroft. It helped me function.” Sherlock could see himself back in his room at Cambridge – medicating himself with an injection of cocaine or heroin – whatever had been required. To fill the void that had been left after  _ deleting  _ or rather repressing such critical parts of his being. If not, he would have just lounged around on his bed or in the armchair and not moved for hours on end. Alcohol had been Mycroft’s choice of poison, Sherlock’s choices had just been more deadly and illicit. “I wasn’t happy. Wasn’t sad. I felt none of that. It’s like my affect had been blunted. And then – when I used –”

“You felt euphoric?”

“Yes. A rush. I could do so much. It was an approximation to happiness.” Sherlock muses – trying to sum up his memories of the time. 

“An approximation?” 

“I know what happiness feels like now, Mycroft. Whatever I felt then from taking them – that wasn’t it.”

“When were you last happy, Lock?” Mycroft asks – out of curiosity.

“Myc – that’s a silly question. The smart question to ask me would be when was the last time I wasn’t happy? – and I would say today when I saw all of these things on my arm. I mean – I didn’t do this to myself, if you know what I mean. I am not the same person as ‘past me’ was. I felt… violated.” And then Sherlock admits quietly. “I was scared.” 

“I know, Lock.” Mycroft’s hand gently strokes his brother’s arm, still lying on the table.

“Scared that you would… react badly. Throw me out. Hate me.”

“I would never.” Mycroft quickly reassures him – internally feeling sad that his brother would think he would do this. 

But the guilt cuts deep within him. He certainly had reacted badly the first time around. Never understanding why his bright little brother had felt the need to use such noxious and dangerous substances. Mycroft had scolded, forced him into various cold and indifferent rehab programs, bribed him – the list is long. All these things might have been needed, but nothing had ultimately tackled the crux of the issue. 

As uncomfortable as all these discussions are, Mycroft knows that things would never get better unless they brought out all their issues and feelings to one another honestly. Frankly, he is tired of keeping everything within himself. The problem is – he physically can’t anymore. The therapy sessions with his no-nonsense psychologist and honest conversations with his brother the last few days had sprung a leak that he could no longer contain. And he needs Sherlock to talk so that he could know best how to help him.  _ Love him.  _ His brain helpfully corrects. This time. There is really only so much that deductions could do. Considering that he had failed to see the heart of the matter the first time around. Been blind, really. Willfully, perhaps. To save himself the agony he feels now. 

Gently, Mycroft says. “Lock. I know for the most part about what has happened in your life. You can freely talk to me about anything you wish to discuss.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.” Sherlock bows his head – looking impossibly young as he speaks. At the look in Mycroft’s eyes, he says sadly. “I know I did. Many times. And obviously gave fuck all about it –”

“Language.” Mycroft says – but there’s no bite to his reprimand. It’s more affectionate than anything else, really.

The corners of his brother’s lips twitch and threaten to curve upwards to form a smile. Sherlock whispers, treating each word with care. “You  _ love  _ me.”

Mycroft is instantly alert. Did Sherlock just say that? Does Sherlock know? Wait. He probably means in a fraternal way. He opts to say. “I do care about you, brother mine.” 

There is now a smile on Sherlock’s face. Mycroft finds it incredibly endearing. He has never seen a seventeen year old Lock genuinely smile. Or hell, even the adult version. Certainly never in front of him. Let alone for him. Except for that weirdly intense moment back in Sherrinford. He shivers involuntarily despite his woolen winter coat. His brother’s gaze alternates between Mycroft and his concealed track marks. 

Cutting short the profound moment, Sherlock stands up while putting back on his space-blue coloured hoodie, coat and scarf. He says. “Let’s go, Mycroft.” More quietly he adds – making Mycroft strain his ears to hear his words. There’s a softness in his expression that Mycroft has never seen before. “You didn’t have to do all that for me. The sixth concealer you used would have been close enough to my skin tone for most people not to notice, but you spent almost an hour doing what you did. I know you have an important project that got interrupted because of me, and I know that you are going to stay up bloody late, perhaps all night before we board the plane to Berlin, to finish it. And yet – you are still planning to take me somewhere nice to eat before going home.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft gets up as well – and pushes the chair in. Picking up the products Sherlock needed, he adds before his brother turns to leave the room. “Of course, I had to. Wait.” 

Sherlock stops again, and Mycroft wraps his free arm readily around his brother’s willowy torso, bringing him closer and noting that Sherlock is almost as tall as he is now. Almost at his original height. “You’ve been unhappy and alone for too long. Let me spoil you when I can, please.” 

“Not out of guilt?” His brother murmurs. 

“No. Because I  _ want  _ to.” Mycroft slides his hand up to ruffle the mess of curls. 

Sherlock lets his head rest on Mycroft’s shoulder for a moment, taking in the comforting scent that is his brother. Expensive notes of his cologne. Hints of the coconut bubble tea and bubble waffle that they’d shared on the way here. He closes his eyes for a second – feeling oddly safe and  _ loved(?) _ in a way he had never known as a teen. Not since Victor. All he has to do is look at his arm if he needs a reminder. 

But he can do something for his brother. “There’s a  _ Master Bao _ in here somewhere, let’s get some Chinese takeaway and go home – brother. We can eat fancy things in Germany. I want you to sleep well.”

“So I can give you my undivided attention tomorrow?” It’s Mycroft’s turn to smile.

“Precisely.” Sherlock grins brattishly, before leaning forward further to give his brother a cheeky little peck on the cheek before finally leaving the room. 

Mycroft stands rooted to the spot for a few seconds, before reaching up to touch the spot where Sherlock’s lips had brushed against his skin. His nerve endings are still tingling. Shaking away this temporary state of craziness, he follows his brother out to go grab non-tester versions of the concealers from the shelves. 

* * *

“Oh… Hello, Sherlock.” Greg Lestrade does a double-take when the front door of Mycroft’s house swings open, revealing a casually dressed Sherlock in grey shirt, hoodie, jeans and no shoes. 

“Hello Greg.” Sherlock smirks, before using his chopsticks to scarf down some dan dan noodles with mushroom from a porcelain bowl. He then informs in a discouraging tone. “Mycroft is busy.”

“I just wanted to see how you are.” Greg replies. “Bollocks, you are just as tall as me now! And – those curls – damn… last time I was here, you were about this tall –” He gestures below his waist. “And breaking your brother’s antiques with your kitty-cat.” 

“I do remember, Greg. It was only last month. Would you like to come in?” Sherlock remembers his manners – as it is fairly cold outside. Before he had come to the door, he had checked the camera feed. If it had been a stranger, he would have asked Mycroft to get the door or ignored it altogether. He slurps down some more noodles. 

Greg gawks at him once more – but the DI steps in and shuts the door behind him a moment later. With a few movements, he sheds his outerwear and hangs them on the conveniently located coat stand. Soon when they are both sitting at the dining table – which is still littered with Sherlock’s dinner (Mycroft and he had gone all out and bought dumplings, different types of bao, fried bao, noodles, dough sticks and steamed edamame to cover both dinner and breakfast before they leave for Heathrow at a ridiculously early hour the next morning), Sherlock remarks – pointing out the obvious. “You seem surprised.”

The DI smiles wryly. “You’ve changed.”

“I would hope so, after being ten years –”

“No. I mean – you are different from what you used to be. I met you when you were in your early twenties, and you were a frenetic ball of energy. More so, if you had indulged that day.”

Oh. Someone else who knows about his substance-use history. And – he’s part of New Scotland Yard. Yet – he still lets him solve cases? And is on friendly terms with him? 

Greg continues his reminiscence. “Yet – you are definitely younger than when I first met you. I still remember that day. You snuck your way through the yellow tape and the officers that were supposed to be guarding the scene of the homicide. Your pupils were blown, and you were all rapid-fire-deductions and insults. My colleague tried to arrest you, but I took you back to my cruiser instead. And, we had a chat – that I remember most vividly. You deducing the deteriorating state of my marriage and me trying to talk some sense into you. I don’t think I was very successful, but I did learn that everything that you said that day was true. Well… the insults aside.” The DI chuckles. 

“Hm, you are still single. And haven’t mingled. Actually – no, you had a handful of one-night-stands since your divorce had become official. One of them was a man. Oops – were you ready to come out of the closet?” Sherlock offers impertinently as he moves to pluck a pork dumpling off a plate, and Greg just laughs in a helpless sort of manner. 

“Ah, there you are – I was getting worried.” Greg gives Sherlock a fond look. 

“You liked me.” Sherlock grins, this time grabbing a braised pork bao and raising it to his lips. “Lack of tact and all.”

“Oh, Sunshine. Of course I did. You were a good man. With a prickly exterior.” Greg smiles, while Sherlock pushes a fried chicken bao towards the DI with his free hand. “Cheers.” The copper takes the offering and bites into the bao with a relish. 

“You haven’t had dinner yet. And you have a case.” Sherlock deduces. 

“Yes. But the case is not something up your alley. Too straightforward. We already have the suspect in custody. So – where’s your cat?”

“Oh, we dropped her off at Mrs. Hudson’s – we are going to fly out tomorrow. To Berlin.” Sherlock explains. “I still have to pack.” 

And he would have to make sure Mycroft had what he needed too, so that big brother could just focus on his work. It had been a good thing they had gone to the mall, as his brother apparently did not own a pair of swimming trunks and had apparently forgotten to tell Anthea to buy a pair. 

“Your brother is fine – is he? Or did you two finally drive each other insane?”

“He’s alright.” Sherlock says rather ruefully. “I just wish…” That Mycroft would look after himself as well as he looked after him. Damn… where did this thought come from?

At Greg’s inquisitive look, Sherlock shakes his head. “Nevermind.” 

“He did a good job.” Greg muses. “Looking after you. I don’t think you will be the same man when you finally reach your actual age.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Sherlock says – more to himself than Greg. 

Greg helps himself to some of the other food, while Sherlock finishes his noodles. When he’s finished, the DI stands up and asks. “Are you coming back in time for Christmas? I know John and you have a tradition of hosting a Christmas party…”

Sherlock makes a face. “Somethow, I think I am forced into doing so.”

Greg chuckles. “Would you come if there was one this year?”

“I don’t know. Christmas is years away for me. As you know. And – I think the fewer people know about my current state, the better.” 

“The only one who wouldn’t know would be Molly –”

“Ah, the one I am apparently avoiding like the plague?”

At Greg’s confusion, Sherlock clarifies. “I found some notes that my old self had left. It mentioned that I was avoiding her whenever possible… I don’t know why though.” He then adds. “Dr. Watson mentioned that she was, to quote him, ‘sweet on me’.”

“An understatement, really – she’s had a crush on you since the day she saw you. And it never waned.”

“Greg – you know that closet I mentioned minutes ago?”

“Yeah? Oh. You  _ are  _ gay.” Greg looks thoughtfully at him. “You didn’t seem very interested in sex back then. Nor had we ever had a conversation on this topic aside from the usual jokes. Ah. But you should talk to her at some point – when you are back to – I guess – yourself.”

“What did I do?” Sherlock asks – perplexed. 

“You only told her that you loved her – and have been avoiding her since.” 

Sherlock feels a throbbing sensation in his temple. Good God. Did he really do that? No wonder he had been avoiding her like the plague.

“Of course, it was to save her life – but yeah – she doesn’t know that. Not for the lack of us trying to tell her.” Greg then sighs regretfully, glancing at his phone. It’s getting late. “On that note, I guess I better go. Thank you for dinner, Sherlock.” 

After Greg leaves the house, Sherlock goes back to put away the food and wash the dishes. It feels lonely without Ching Shih underfoot and Mycroft helping him clean up. 

Damn. This Molly situation. Good thing Mycroft had come back in time before Molly had shown up at Baker Street the other day. If thirty-seven-year-old him couldn’t handle it, certainly he wouldn’t be able to at a younger age. Things must have been very dire indeed to make Sherlock say ‘I love you’ to a girl. Well, at least now he wouldn’t be caught off-guard. Hm… is this situation somehow related to Mycroft’s trauma? Gah. It’s so frustrating at times not to know. After he dries the last dish and puts it in the dishwasher – his brother prefers that the dishes be done by hand – he runs upstairs to go pack. 


	12. What Lock wants, Lock gets

“Myc?” 

“Yes, Lock?” Mycroft turns to his brother on the plane, putting his tablet on the table between their seats. 

Sherlock has a thick navy-blue blanket wrapped tightly around his entire body. Dark curls poke out wildly from underneath the hood of his hoodie. The word that comes into mind is ‘cute’, but Mycroft keeps it to himself – knowing that his brother would vehemently disagree.

“I think I should have taken your offer to get my curls cut. I found some hair in my –” His brother looks somewhat abashed while he searches for the least embarrassing words. “Intergluteal cleft.” 

“We can find a coiffeur when we go to Berlin.” Mycroft suggests readily.

“Could… you do it?” Sherlock asks.

“Lock, I am not accustomed –”

“Please? I don’t like people touching me. Just watch a youTube video or something before you have at it…” 

Mycroft sighs – his brother sounds frantic. 

Sherlock adds knowingly, having followed Mycroft’s train of thought. “I know I’ve gone to coiffeurs at this age, but – Mycroft – I  _ endured  _ those appointments. Closed my eyes, gritted my teeth – and hoped – no, prayed – that the coiffeur doesn’t talk during the process. And you know – I don’t believe in deities, but...”

“I am a person, Lock – in case –”

“No, you are Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone is determined. And then comes the puppy-dog eyes and a softly spoken – “ _ My _ Mycroft.” 

Oh dear god. Sherlock had always been manipulative in one way or another – but this is another level. The possessive inflection does things to him. Especially from this version of him. But Mycroft simply nods, and says. “Fine. But if it’s disaster, brother mine –”

“I won’t say a word.” Sherlock winks this time. Even though he is sure that it wouldn’t be. Mycroft excels in most things he attempts. “And I am  _ not _ manipulating you. It’s true. I am  _ your _ Sherlock and you are  _ my  _ Mycroft.” 

“You are a menace, brother. That’s what you are.” Mycroft sighs before picking up his tablet to tackle his  _ New York Times _ crossword once again – trying not to think of another context that he might have liked his brother to say ‘you are  _ my  _ Mycroft’ in. 

They pass the time in companionable silence – Sherlock drumming his fingers against his thighs while looking out at the expanse of blue sky from the window next to him. He thinks back to his conversation with Greg – yesterday. The closet. His old self’s lack of interest in sex. His reflexive response to John talking about Molly. He had never given great thought to it – his sexuality – but he knows he prefers the male form. Intrinsic knowledge. Maybe he should think about it this time around, while he’s reaching the tail-end of puberty for the second time. 

Yesterday had been the first time he had taken himself in hand since the deaging incident and he had a little wank in the shower before bed. He had caught himself subconsciously glancing at several good-looking men (tall, dark-haired ones) yesterday at the mall – but yet – he has no urges to do anything with them. Oh, but sex is a messy affair, it requires  _ touching  _ someone, and having someone  _ touch  _ him in return – and the very idea of this is absolutely appalling. Unbearable. On second thought, perhaps he should shelve the topic again. 

He glances over at Mycroft, who is still engrossed in his crossword – his fingers tapping and swiping effortlessly away on the screen. Big brother had forgone his suits this morning, wearing a slim-fitting turtleneck and a pair of jeans. Casual, but Sherlock rather likes it. It makes Mycroft look younger and far more approachable.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Sherlock asks – Mycroft had been awake and in his study when Sherlock had snuck down to the kitchen for one last sip of water before he had gone to bed – and had been in the kitchen – eating yesterday’s leftovers – when Sherlock had reluctantly crawled out of bed at five in the morning to get ready for the day. 

“Napped. Thirty minutes. Wasn’t quite done with the work, but Anthea could handle the rest.” Mycroft turns to look at him and Sherlock could feel a comforting warmth spreading within him from the affection in those blue eyes. His brother then says placatingly. “I should be okay for the day. Not too tired. Enough to pay attention to you, Lock.” 

“Good.” Sherlock smiles while making a mental note to pay attention to his brother. Just in case he does get tired. He has another thought that could potentially pass the time. “Did you do your relaxation exercises though – yesterday?”

At Mycroft’s little head shake, Sherlock says. “Let’s do them now before the plane lands, so we don’t have to worry about them for the rest of the day.”

* * *

His brother is growing up way too quickly. Where did that bloodthirsty little boy who wanted to play dinosaurs and force people to walk the plank go? Who had smashed his Qing Dynasty vase and needed him to kiss his wounds better? Not that Mycroft dislikes the adolescent Sherlock who is about to reach the cusp of adulthood. Far from it. As cliché as it sounds, Mycroft loves him more and more with every day that passes. Said little brother is dressed in a delectable suit – complete with  _ tie! _ One that Mycroft hadn’t forced him into wearing. Looking so obliviously beautiful across from him.

Sherlock had promised him that he would stay until this was all over – but what then? Mycroft knows that there will be a big hole in his life  _ (heart)  _ when Lock finally decides to go back to Baker Street. When he remembers his fondness for the damnable Dr. Watson and his offspring. It is inevitable. At Sherlock’s frown, Mycroft quickly puts himself back together – noting that there’s still nineteen years of growth for Lock to undergo. There’s still time. Precious time for him to enjoy and cherish his brother’s company. He takes some deep calming breaths, before his hand reaches for the menu of this fancy Japanese-inspired restaurant. Not that he had needed to look, they would get menu 8 – the special eight course meal that this restaurant offers.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is perplexed by the series of expressions passing through his brother’s face. He had learned early on that Mycroft wore a mask, but it seems that as time went on (or perhaps of the fact that he is no longer working at his top-secret government job) the mask had gradually slipped off. Allowing him to see over time, more glimpses of the man that is his brother had hidden behind the façade of the British Government. If he had to interpret what he had just seen – Sherlock would describe it as sad. Melancholic. 

But why? They had a fun day together before dinner. Went to the hotel from the airport (Flughafen Berlin-Tegel) to drop off their bags. Gone to the Spy Museum where Mycroft had told him so many stories – some of them classified, some funny and some intriguing – of the doings of the MI6 and had laughed so hard when Sherlock tried to escape a laser-based security system that the museum had set up – only to set off the alarms partway through. Strolled around the city amidst light picturesque flurries, where Sherlock had eaten currywurst and fries and they had taken many pictures together of all the touristy sites (the Brandenburg Gate, the Wall, Checkpoint Charlie – and various boulevards and cathedrals). Returned back to their hotel room to change for dinner – at the two-star Michelin restaurant that they are sitting in now. And then – tomorrow, they will rent a car (which Mycroft had forbidden him to drive despite being legally allowed to) and they will go to  _ Tropical Islands _ – the waterpark. Sherlock steeples his fingers together, reflecting – recalling every moment of the day. Did he do something that inadvertently upset his brother? No. He cannot think of anything obvious. 

The waiter comes, and Mycroft orders for them, including a bit of sake for Sherlock. Sherlock has mixed feelings about drinking – he likes having a bit of alcohol with dinner, but knowing that Mycroft has cut out drinks altogether – it makes him want to stop too. Not to mention the other vice – cigarettes. He could recall his eighteen-year-old self smoking his way through entire boxes while lying languidly on his couch back in Cambridge. Practicing the art of blowing smoke rings. The more obnoxious, the better. Well, when he hadn’t been high – that is. One time he had even nicked a box from Mycroft. It’s evident that his brother had quit that habit for good too now, so there are no cigarettes to steal. Or rather, cigarettes worth stealing. It had been fun to purloin things from his brother – now that he thinks about it – but then he remembers that conversation about the credit cards, and he just feels like a terrible brother. 

“Did I do something wrong, brother?” Sherlock asks tentatively just as the waiter returns with a small pot of sake and a matching cup for him and some cold still water for his brother. 

Mycroft looks startled, but he quickly reassures him. “No. Not at all.”

“Then why are you, well… sad?” 

Sherlock finds himself examining the three-piece suit that his brother has on. Like all of big brother’s clothes (minus the last minute swimming trunks) they are well-tailored – showing off a slim figure maintained by careful eating habits and the judicious use of a treadmill. His hair is thinning – but Sherlock finds the entire look rather distinguished. Not that it mattered – this is his brother whom Sherlock loves and adores. All Sherlock could think of these days is how nice it is to be held and hugged by Mycroft. As he had grown older, these moments of physical intimacy have grown scarcer – making Sherlock wish sometimes that he could be a kid again and readily bask in Mycroft’s hugs and kisses. He doesn’t dare initiate anything between them, knowing that he would feel a hundred times worse if Mycroft ever rejected him. Every comforting hug that Mycroft had given him over the last few days has been filed and stored carefully in his mind for easy access.

“I am not, brother mine. Just… thinking.” Mycroft offers moments later.

The first course comes – caviar with mackerel tartare. Sherlock helps himself to some sake first (served hot for the cool evening) and dives in – enjoying the morsel of food. 

“Thinking about what?” Sherlock isn’t going to let Mycroft off the hook so easily. They have a policy of honesty, and he can tell big brother is trying to be evasive. 

“I am just being silly, Lock. Just a bout of nostalgia.” Mycroft tries to deter him. 

“Do tell!” Sherlock fishes out the last of the caviar from the bowl, before an efficient waiter comes to take his finished dish away. At Mycroft’s hesitation, Sherlock leans forward slightly and places his palm over his brother’s knee, feeling the softness of the merino and the contours of Mycroft’s patella underneath his fingertips. “Mycroft – we promised we wouldn’t hide anything from each other…” 

_We promised honesty._ _Not full-disclosure. _Mycroft thinks, but he has the sense that Sherlock is hiding something from him too. The hand on his knee feels warm, and his brother’s touch had caused a delightful frisson to run up his spine. God. If it’s full-disclosure that had been promised, he would be doomed. Rotting in Hell. He then offers. “I will tell, if you tell me one of the things you aren’t telling.” 

_ A thought for a thought. _ Sherlock remembers back from the skating rink at the Canary Wharf the other day. He has a few, but only one which is pertinent to the both of them. Or at least he thinks. The issue of touch. Of physical affection. The lack of it. He sighs. He’s bloody eighteen now. But, growing older doesn’t necessarily mean that there is a growth in courage. 

The next dish – the Ikarimi salmon appears as a temporary distraction for both, and Sherlock enjoys how the fillet melts in his mouth. Damn. This is amazing. Easily one of the best things he’s ever eaten.

“Not so easy, isn’t it?” Mycroft offers him the first smile of the meal – a small one, but Sherlock will take it over the melancholy. 

“No, but – I think it’s better I tell you when we go back to the hotel.” Sherlock gives Mycroft that much, before returning back to savouring his salmon. 

* * *

Sherlock is sitting on a chair with a towel draped around him in their hotel room. His brother had wetted his hair with water from the tap, and is now contemplating the mass of curls that had rapidly grown in a month. It had reached well below his shoulder blades now. 

“How short do you want it, Lock?” Mycroft asks after a moment.

“You decide. You are the one seeing my mop, anyways.” Sherlock offers, having a feeling that his brother is more invested in his curls than he is. “It’s going to grow back quickly regardless.”

“That’s true.” Mycroft agrees. 

And Sherlock almost purrs with contentment, when Mycroft runs his fingers through his locks and pulls slightly before he hears the snipping noises of the scissors. He closes his eyes, and just lets himself feel – sensing Mycroft combing out his curls, dividing his hair into sections – cutting as he goes. There’s a lot of trust that goes into this – Sherlock thinks when the pointy edges of the shears get too close to his ears. And he trusts Mycroft to not hurt him. It’s so much nicer than having a stranger do this. His brother’s touches also linger longer than necessary, making Sherlock want to sink into his caresses – but they never last long enough for him to get comfortable. His brother stops every now and then, to examine his progress, before starting again. It takes a while before Mycroft finally steps back, and says. “It’s finished. What do you think?”

Sherlock blinks at his reflection in the mirror. Wow. As expected, his brother did a good job for someone who had spent the last half-hour or so watching tutorials online. It’s shorter than Sherlock had expected, but he understands – considering how ridiculously quick the hair grows with his rapid aging. He reaches up to touch the soft short tufts of hair at the occiput. “You should quit your day job and go cut hair, big brother.” 

“I will keep that in mind, Lock.” Mycroft is grinning.

“Who knows, maybe the Queen would require your services.” 

“Ha.” Mycroft exhales, before reaching down to gather the plastic sheet that he had laid down to catch all the hair after moving the chair out of the way. “Hm… maybe I should keep a lock.” 

“Do whatever you like with it – brother – I am going to go take a shower.” Sherlock stands up with his head feeling much lighter and disappears into the loo, with a set of sailboat-patterned pyjamas in his arms. 

* * *

“So, Lock – what is it that you wanted to tell me?” Mycroft asks when Sherlock emerges from the loo – freshly washed. 

Sherlock climbs onto the bed that Mycroft is currently lying on. His brother sighs, but lets him crawl under the covers. Mycroft remarks. “You do have your own bed over there, you know.”

“I know, My – but what I wanted to tell you relates to that.”

“Does it?” Mycroft inquires.

“Yeah. I miss it. Mycroft. When we used to cuddle. And hug. And kiss.” Sherlock cuts to the chase – now so close to his brother that their sides are touching. 

Mycroft gulps. This is trouble. He then asks his brother. “Do you ever have the desire to do this with… someone else?”

“I thought about it earlier this morning, but no. I can’t stand being touched by people, Mycroft. You are the only one –”

“That you can stand?” Mycroft finishes humourlessly. “Very flattering…”

“No, Mycroft – I don’t tolerate touch from you – I crave it. Want it. Need it. I just didn’t want to bring it up because I don’t know what I will do if you said ‘no’.” Sherlock admits. 

“Oh Lock – come here.” Mycroft holds out his arms and Sherlock almost falls into them in his eagerness to have this need satisfied. 

Sherlock practically melts into his brother’s arms. He rests his head against his brother’s shoulder, and he lets the calming scent of the hotel body wash and residual notes of his brother’s cologne soothe him. A hand draws comforting circles on his back, while the other plays with his shorn curls. This feels right. Perfect. Safe. Really – the only place for him to be. 

At the happy contented look on Sherlock’s face, Mycroft shakes his head. He really is a masochist, isn’t he? Having baby brother so close to him – at an age when Mycroft had long since desired him. He had been sparing with the hugs and other acts of demonstrative affection over the last few days, fearing that his body would not behave itself. But, if this sort of platonic cuddling is what Sherlock needed, then he would find some way to give it without destroying his brother’s innocence. 

“But, you will have to sleep on your own bed, okay?” Mycroft reminds him. “I don’t want to hurt you when I have a nightmare, brother mine.” 

Sherlock pouts, but he makes no comment. It is a reality that they have to live with. He then says to Mycroft minutes later. “So what were you holding back earlier? Now that I told you mine.”

“Was thinking you were growing up too fast, Lock. That I would miss you when you finally leave me.” Mycroft reveals reluctantly – it’s only fair otherwise. 

“Myc – I won’t leave you.” Sherlock says firmly, clinging fiercely to his brother. “I don’t want to leave you.” 

Mycroft smiles sadly at him. His irises a heartbreaking shade of blue. He says. “You will remember everything eventually, Lock. About Dr. Watson, his child. Even his dead wife. They were always your priority, Sherlock. Not me. Never me.” 

“Priorities change.” Sherlock whispers, his breath caressing Mycroft’s ear, sending a tingling sensation down Mycroft’s spine. Sherlock doesn’t like the tone that his brother had finished his words with. It depresses him. Reminding him that his old self had neglected his brother terribly, even though it is evident that Mycroft adored him so much. “Brother mine. Now that I have you.” 

“Oh, Lock…” Mycroft simply replies. He wants to say that Sherlock is too young to know his mind, but he knows his brother will fight him on that. So instead, he says. “We will see, little brother, we will see.” 

And when it’s time to sleep, Mycroft brushes a soft kiss over his brother’s forehead – before shooing the reluctant Lock out of his bed. 


	13. Observations at the waterpark

_ Splash! _

Sherlock loses his black inner tube as soon as he slams into the water at a tremendous velocity. He treads water for a bit, before getting his bearings – spitting out the chlorinated liquid when he emerges. He giggles – shaking his head – it’s ridiculous how this is fun this is. Dashing up all those stairs and having an adrenaline rush that lasts a mere fraction of how long it takes to climb back up. Somewhere along the way, he had hit up to a speed of 70 km/hour – or at least, that’s what the man at the top had said in  _ Deutsch. _ At least the line is short. He’s gone down all four of the slides of the mighty  _ Waterslide Tower _ and the fastest, most exhilarating one at least a handful of times (he’d lost count) and he had lost Mycroft along the way. He knows that his brother had been snapping pictures of him at some point – no doubt laughing at all the weird expressions he makes when he makes his splash-landings. Now, where is Mycroft? He wonders when he finally crawls out of the pool, discarding his tube. 

He runs his fingers through his too-short curls, even though they’ve grown at least a quarter of an inch since Mycroft had played coiffeur. Looking around, he sees a few other visitors – Poles, Germans – it’s still offseason just before the holidays. The perfect time to be here. There aren't enough people around to make his brother feel uncomfortable. But, alas – no Mycroft. His eyes do linger on a man (probably in his early thirties) with brown hair, admiring the hairiness of his chest. In speedos. Semi-professional football player ( _ Regionalliga Nordost _ ). Computer consultant, professionally. Owns a cat, judging by those claw marks on his arm. Single. Definitely gay. Tearing his eyes away, he moves on. He totally understands what eye-candy is now. Mycroft. Where are you? He feels like a little child, looking eagerly for his parent. 

After he’s been wandering about for at least ten-minutes – feeling rather lost, a hand taps his shoulder, and he sees – Mycroft. Without hesitation, Sherlock slings his arm around his brother’s bare torso, feeling the need for a bit of reassurance – and Mycroft says fondly. “I wondered when you would finally notice I walked off.” 

“Let’s go on a slide together!” Sherlock exclaims.

“Must we, little brother?” There is a sigh – that attitude that indicates such things are beneath Mycroft, but Sherlock smiles – calling a bluff. “Come on – let’s go. It’s not scary at all. Don’t even need an inner tube.” 

Mycroft lets himself be pulled along – knowing that Sherlock is going to drag him to that family friendly slide – rather harmless compared to the ones that Lock had been going on for well over an hour. He does notice Sherlock’s wandering eye though – which seems to land on tall men. Damn. A feeling of jealousy bubbles up from somewhere, but Mycroft immediately quashes it. It would be normal at this age for Lock to look – and remembering that conversation about touch yesterday, it seems highly unlikely Lock would want to do anything with anyone. Plus, little brother’s arm is entwined around his own, and it’s nice. Beyond nice, really.

Soon they are climbing the stairs and when they reach the mouth of the wide tan-coloured slide, Sherlock gestures for Mycroft to sit beside him, and Mycroft has one arm still in the possession of his brother’s and another arm around his waterproof drawstring bag. His brother looks at him – his gorgeous blue-green-grey irises have this glint of excitement that Sherlock had used to look at locked-room murders with – and Mycroft knows he would do much just to get his brother to look at him like that again. God. With this shared look, they push off – both timing their strokes perfectly as they gather momentum. They separate when they hit the water (gently), but Sherlock’s arm quickly finds his again before Mycroft finds the way to get out of the pool. 

“Thank you for indulging me.” Sherlock says quietly, just as the shrieks of joy from the next riders hit the water behind them. 

“Oh, Lock – anytime.” Mycroft replies. “Don’t want to be your boring older brother all the time.”

“Mm… You aren’t.” Sherlock grins happily before saying. “Do you want to go explore the dry areas now?”

Hm… like the rainforest, Lock?”

“Yeah, there was this flamingo that looked rather like you – you know, long legs and – hey!” Sherlock complains loudly when Mycroft splashes him uncharitably with water. 

Mycroft swings himself out of the pool with his bag slung over his shoulder before Sherlock could launch a retaliatory strike. He chuckles. Going to Germany had been a fantastic idea. 

* * *

Mycroft takes his fork and dives into his lamb chops. Juicy, tender, cooked to the right temperature for medium-rare – hearty fare after a busy afternoon in an old blimp-hangar-turned-waterpark. Nowhere near the mind-blowing dinner they had last night at what Mycroft had thought was one of the top-ten restaurants he’d been to, but it’s adequate to sate his hunger – after keeping up with Sherlock all day long. He watches his brother while taking a forkful of mashed potatoes – his favourite hobby – well, since always, but up until last month he had to do it discreetly via CCTV networks. 

It’s intriguing – actually – how different this Lock looks from the troubled one from nineteen-years-ago. His eyes sparkle and dance when Mycroft speaks to him – his face is fuller – healthier, now that he is no longer subsiding on the meager diet of who-knows-what and drugs that he had practiced during late adolescence. He looks content, even though this morning – his brother had freaked a little about the changes to his arm from a year’s worth of IV drug use. Mycroft had soothed him for a better part of twenty minutes, applied that vitamin E containing cream that he had brought from home, taught him how to apply and blend the concealers and let him have cake (Black Forest gateau) from a fine bakery before they had driven out of Berlin. While doing all of that, he couldn’t help but think that the scars are only going to get worse over time. Not to mention Serbia. And the damned Mrs. Watson. So much pain to cope with in the near future. 

“Myc?”

“Yes, Lock?” Mycroft is pulled away from his thoughts.

“I… I want to apologize for something.” Sherlock says, putting down his fork.

“What is it?” 

“I said some really rude and unforgivable things to you at eighteen. Especially the day you took me to rehab…” Sherlock visibly shivers – recalling unpleasant memories. He then adds. “You visited me every day. Snuck me treats. I refused to speak to you at all, but you still stayed the entire thirty-minutes they allowed for visits.” 

“Lock… I don’t want your apologies. We would be sitting here till –”

“We are old men?” Sherlock briefly grins in jest, but his lips twist into a grimace afterwards – unable to imagine exactly how many rude, cruel and unpleasant things he had done over the years.

“Yes. But it’s not just you. I have apologies to make too, Lock. I was smug and arrogant, when I had no right to do so. I thought I knew things, but it turns out that at the end, I knew nothing. Nothing of import, anyways. What good is money, power – prestige when I couldn’t even –” Mycroft sighs deeply. At Sherlock’s inquisitive look, he admits. “I can’t.” He shakes his head helplessly. “I am sorry, Lock – I just can’t.”

“Can I ask you something, brother? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” 

“What is it, Lock?” Mycroft is wary. 

“What do you dream about at night that makes you lash out and yell?” That makes you wake up in cold-sweat and terror?” At Mycroft’s hesitation, Sherlock deduces. “It’s me, isn’t it – brother?” He earns a nod – a barely perceptible one – for his efforts. “It’s not of me overdosing…” Sherlock looks thoughtful, saying the words more to himself. 

“No, Lock – it’s you – dead.” 

The devastation on Mycroft’s face is hard to watch. If Sherlock needs any proof at all that he is the most important person in Mycroft’s life – this is one of them. Cold, hard – cruel evidence. His brother has his face buried in his hands – and Sherlock could only be glad that they had picked a discreet corner table, far away from the other patrons of the restaurant. 

Sherlock abandons his side of the table, to sit in the empty chair next to Mycroft. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t imagine it – he would go mental too if he had to dream about Mycroft dying every night. And it tears at him – from his old memories – Mycroft had always seemed so well-put-together, invulnerable – invincible. Even back then, Sherlock had taken comfort in Mycroft’s inevitability – the way he always seems to appear in a nick of time when things grow too dire. Cautiously, he places his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, and lets it slide down to his wrist – savouring the feel of expensive soft fabric beneath his skin. Big brother is only wearing a light-grey shirt with the collar left undone – revealing tufts of dark fur, aside from his trousers. 

His brother sits up, grabbing the napkin to both hide his face and wipe. He says quietly, “I am sorry, Lock – that you had to see that. I haven’t even told my psychologist about what I dream about.”

“No, Mycroft. Don’t apologize about that. Never apologize for that.” Sherlock then adds firmly, his hand stroking his brother’s forearm. “I think it’s time I do for you, what you’ve done for me – all your life. I asked for this. A second chance. Let me help you –”

“Lock. I told you before. Just you being here – makes all the difference. Really.” Mycroft sighs when he feels his brother envelop him in a hug from behind. 

It seems that ever since they had talked about physical touch the night before, his brother has taken almost every opportunity to get tactile with him. It makes him worry – is this healthy for Lock’s development? Lock had asked for this – yet this whole thing makes Mycroft feel like he’s taking advantage of his brother in some way. 

“Brother – stop thinking. It’s unbecoming.” Sherlock murmurs, his breath tickling against Mycroft’s skin. “I think we should skip dessert, considering how much gateau we had earlier in the day. I think I am a lot heavier than I was when I was eighteen the first time around.”

“You were borderline anorexic, Lock – back then. You look healthy now.” Mycroft says – still feeling uncomfortable that he had let Sherlock see him be so vulnerable. 

Lock has seen him through his nightmares, but there’s something about having these flashbacks in a public space that makes things worse. And these days, without his job to keep his emotions in check, all of his feelings are bubbling constantly at the surface, threatening to spill over whenever and wherever. 

“Your doing.” Sherlock blames, now petting his belly in a comical fashion. 

Mycroft chuckles – picking up his last lamb chop, trying to make things go back to normal. Or rather, whatever this new baseline is between them. His brother had ended the hug, but Mycroft knows there will be more before the day is through. As much as he had tried to discourage Lock from picking up his burdens, it is nice to be cared for, for once. By someone he loved dearly. 

* * *

“I think I could take you…” Sherlock muses from the comfort of the lounger facing the Olympic-sized pools making up the  _ Tropical Seas. _

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Really, brother – must everything turn into a competition? I thought this was a  _ vacation. _ ”

“Freestyle? Two-lengths? Loser should do something for the winner.” Sherlock ignores his brother’s remark. “Winner’s choice. Within reason, of course.” 

“We just ate…” His brother groans, his hand resting on his perfectly flat abdomen. 

“We can go relax in the lagoon afterwards.” Sherlock offers. “With its nice warm waters…”

“What do you want, Lock – if you win?” Mycroft asks curiously. 

“I don’t know, yet – might need a few days to think about it.” Sherlock stands up from the lounger – stretching, letting the soft, almost silky-textured sand run between his toes. “What do you want, Mycroft? Peace and quiet?”

“Ha. Surprisingly, no. That’s when I know that something is truly wrong.” Mycroft grins wryly. He then adds as an afterthought, “I think I have everything that I want, Lock.” 

“Surely, there must be something…” Sherlock rubs at his chin in thought. “You are making it difficult for me to think of a Christmas present for you.”

“Oh, we  _ are  _ doing presents this year?” 

“Well, I thought we were doing the holidays properly this year? Christmas presents are a must.” And then Sherlock looks apologetically at him. “I’ve never gotten you one since you left for school.”

“Never mind.” Mycroft stands up too, flexing and extending his limbs. “So two laps?”

Sherlock nods, and the two of them head to the shallow end of the pool with the least amount of people. 

* * *

Oh fuck. Sherlock desperately flails his arms forwards as he kicks up a storm – for someone who didn’t even own a pair of swimming trunks – Mycroft is a bloody fucking dolphin. He had hoped to beat his brother by using a flip-turn to leave him behind at the first end – but as it turns out, Mycroft obviously knows how to do one too and had come up on top to boot. Can’t judge books by their cover – Sherlock sighs resignedly as he helplessly watches his brother touch the wall before he does at the shallow end. 

“I blame the longer limbs.” Sherlock pants – catching his breath as he hauls his dripping-wet body out of the pool. 

Mycroft follows suit. “Whatever makes you happy, little brother.”

“It would make me feel better if you would just lord over your victory a bit, Mycroft. Instead of treating it as a staunch fact of life.” Sherlock remarks – as they return to the loungers to retrieve their slippers, towels and Mycroft’s bag carrying their possessions. 

His brother indulges him with a smug look that makes Sherlock grin. 

“I don’t derive pleasure from defeating you –”

“That sounds like a lie, brother dear.” Sherlock interjects, waiting for Mycroft to grab all his things before setting off for what was probably their last destination before heading back to their resort suite.

“Maybe just a little.” Mycroft admits. 

As they walk, Sherlock’s hand finds its way into Mycroft’s – and it feels perfectly natural. Neither of them mention anything about it. 

“I guess I like to challenge you – because I want you to  _ see  _ me.” Sherlock reflects a few minutes later – after going through more memories – some from his nineteen-year-old self are starting to emerge. “I guess… the drugs… if I took just enough in a place that you could see me, I would know you would come.” 

“God. Lock.” Mycroft is forced to stop. He feels nauseous. That his brother had done it for his attention. “There are less self-destructive ways –”

“Ah, but you would drop everything and come running.” Sherlock continues quietly with brutal honesty. “I guess, then – I didn’t even know what I was doing. But it seems so obvious in retrospect. My body – my subconscious seems to know what I was missing, even though I didn’t know. And then when you came, my behaviour was probably worse than our regular interactions. Oh. Mycroft –” Sherlock kicks off his slippers and slips into the heavenly warmth of the lagoon. “I was violent towards you – wasn’t I?” A feeling of dismay washes over him as a vague memory comes to the forefront. Him – high out of his mind – pushing Mycroft towards a wall. His brother doing nothing to retaliate. The warmth of shame stains his face, but Mycroft is instantly beside him, wrapping his strong arms around Sherlock – murmuring soothing words that Sherlock fails to perceive into his ear. 

“It was only a handful of times over the years, Lock. Usually you were too out of it to do anything.” Mycroft says placatingly.

“I am so sorry.” Sherlock is actually tearing up against Mycroft’s shoulder, working his way to a full-on bawl. “So, sorry – Mycroft. You didn’t deserve any of that from me…”

Mycroft sighs, dragging them deeper into the lagoon, where they can find a private nook. As much as he would like for them to bury all their grievances and start anew – he understands that this is not possible as Sherlock is forced to relive his year-to-year experiences as his body physically ages. And it’s hard. It’s especially hard to see this sweet and innocent version of Sherlock going through all of this. He finds a spot where he can sit, and he holds his brother tenderly, gently stroking his back, combing through his short hair – Mycroft already misses those curls that he had cut yesterday – doing all those little things that had soothed Lock when he had been younger. 

“Maybe… your life would have been better without me.” Sherlock says, catching Mycroft off-guard once more. Perhaps what Mycroft finds most disturbing is how calmly his brother says it. “I think I am broken – beyond repair.” 

“God. No.” Mycroft holds him tighter – if that is possible. Yet all these feelings are so relatable. His own failings to contain the East Wind. His own inability to protect his brother from those that had been close to him. He had thought Sherlock’s life might have been better without him after Sherrinford. But, he can see that it isn’t true now. They both need each other. Two broken halves that hopefully made a structurally-sound whole. “Don’t, Lock.” He says. “You are necessary. Essential.” 

I love you. The words go unsaid, but Mycroft can feel the visceral agony twist deeper in his chest where his heart beats with each syllable that reverberates in his mind. 

It takes him back to Sherrinford. Those damned coffins. The I LOVE YOU inscribed on that brass plate. God. That entire conversation with Miss Hooper had been so painful to listen to. Like fingernails against a chalkboard. To hear Sherlock say ‘I love you’ to someone that wasn’t him. Even if he had known that his brother hadn’t meant it. And to be jealous of a silly little goldfish, just because she had been the recipient of these three desperate but hollow words. At least, she had known what it feels like – for a brief while – to hear those precious words that Mycroft would never hear being said to him. 

Sherlock looks up, his eyes crusty – still filled with unshed tears. Mycroft loosens his hold on his brother, but Sherlock’s arms immediately wrap around his shoulders to maintain contact. 

God. Even amidst all these bad memories and wrongs committed against each other, Sherlock still looks ethereal under the dimmed indirect and colourful lighting illuminating the space. Creating what the goldfish would define as a romantic atmosphere. The droplets of water cling onto the column of Sherlock’s neck, sliding slowly down his delectable throat and into the suprasternal notch above his clavicles. Mycroft swallows – suppressing an urge to lick at those droplets, but Sherlock settles for resting his head against Mycroft’s shoulder – evidently seeking comfort. So, Mycroft provides it, letting his fingers trace comforting patterns against his brother’s back and brushing the most innocent of kisses against his dear face. 

“We will be okay, won’t we, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks after what seems like a long time.

“I can only hope so, little brother.” 

There is probably an excruciatingly hot pit in Hell being heated up for him right now, that’s for sure – Mycroft muses grimly to himself. Although, as nice as it is to be here with his brother – it’s another type of Hell as well – as the only people who seem to be lounging around the lagoon at this late hour are couples, holding their afterhours trysts in strategic corners. 

Sherlock follows Mycroft’s line of sight, determined to find some levity. “I didn’t know you were a voyeur, big brother.” 

“I don’t think that is a word that should be in your vocabulary, Lock.”

“You are deflecting.” 

“Am I? I am not the only person here that enjoys watching people, Lock.” 

Sherlock feels the heat blossom in his cheeks. Had he really been that obvious? But whereas he had gone for a jest, Mycroft’s statement carries just a touch of discontent. What does Mycroft have against him looking at men? It’s not because big brother is homophobic… Sherlock is positive that Mycroft is gay too. He says firmly, “There’s nothing wrong with looking, Mycroft. And you know perfectly well that I won’t start anything with anyone.” 

“Oh, Lock – maybe this time around you will find someone that you can stand to be touched by.”  _ And to be loved by.  _ Mycroft is unable to keep the wistfulness out of his tone.  _ And no one would be worthy of you... _

Sherlock shakes his head adamantly. The idea of anyone touching him is still appalling. 

There is a sadness in the way Mycroft looks at him. A similar kind to the look that he had seen at dinner the day before in Berlin. But not quite. Judging by how his brother seems to evade his probing questions, this is something that Mycroft seems determined to keep to himself. Straight out asking is not going to make Mycroft relinquish his secret. 

But why would Mycroft be sad? Sherlock ponders, making sure that his face is hidden against Mycroft’s neck so that big brother cannot figure out what he is up to. And what could he do to mitigate it? Make him happy? 


	14. A matter of jealousy

Two days later, Sherlock still doesn’t have a clue in regard to the sadness that he had seen in Mycroft’s eyes. Nor had he seen such emotion make a reappearance since. Unfortunately, being twenty hadn’t brought him any groundbreaking insight or unearthed any significant memories that could help him decipher his brother. The track marks in his cubital fossa had either faded away, or scarred over – but no new ones had appeared today – much to his relief. Twenty had been a clean year, full of fanatic chemical research of the non-recreational variety. Still, he uses Mycroft’s special cream though, hoping that he could diminish the marks on his flesh. 

Hand-in-hand they trek, making their way to the Bastei Bridge – a medieval-style stone bridge that the Germans had made to provide a view of the dramatic rock formations jutting upwards all around them. It is chilly out, with a hint of snow frosting the naked and fir-clad branches of the trees and gilting the edges of the rocks themselves. But Sherlock feels warm and content walking alongside Mycroft who is more relaxed than Sherlock had ever seen him – both in dress and manner. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Sherlock remarks, feeling a need to move his mouth. 

“The rocks?” Mycroft tosses an inquiring glance at him. “It does feel rather otherworldly.”

“I meant us.” Sherlock leans slightly against Mycroft, letting his head rest slightly on his broad shoulder. “Spending time together. Like this.” 

Mycroft stops walking – letting his eyes wander about the landscape, before daring to look at his brother – his gorgeous curls splayed out against the fine wool of his coat. His cheeks reddened by cold, his lips chapped slightly by the wind – but there’s a happy glint in his eyes and a slight smile that tugs at his mouth. It is quite easily the most beautiful view in this entire national park. Fuck. The country. The continent. 

Isn’t this what he had always wanted? To see Sherlock happy and healthy? Smiling at him instead of scowling? Mycroft inhales slowly, taking in the fresh Saxony air, before reaching up to caress his brother’s cheek and tousle his brother’s windswept curls. Engaging in what is permissible to suppress his desire to kiss his brother. He’s learned his lesson from years ago, he won’t reject his brother like he had done at that funeral – but _ this _is another level of Hell to which he has ascended to. 

“Brotherly friends.” Sherlock murmurs – a whisper barely audible in the winds.

“What was that, Lock?” Mycroft asks.

“That’s what we are.” Sherlock smiles. “Brotherly friends.”

Indeed. Mycroft turns away slightly to ensure Sherlock doesn’t see his face. Lock doesn’t hate him anymore. He has Sherlock’s friendship, his affection, his care – the pleasure of his company, even his touch. It should be enough. It should be _ more _ than enough. It was more than he had ever dared to dream of. Fuck. He’s a selfish bastard. Mycroft chastises himself. A lech like some of those ghastly people he is forced to deal with in Whitehall. His Lock is more than twenty years younger than him at this point. 

“Right, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, apparently oblivious to whatever internal turmoil that had just blown through Mycroft’s mind – leaving his thoughts in tatters. 

“Right, Lock.” Mycroft says with a herculean effort, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. 

Sherlock is still using Mycroft’s shoulder as a pillow. Casually, he changes the topic. “You having your therapy this week?”

“Yes. Tomorrow morning actually. Via secure video call.” Mycroft is happy to latch onto another subject – even if it’s the subject of those dreadful sessions. “I will need you out of our room for a few hours. Can I trust you to keep your mischief to a minimum?” 

“I can try.” Sherlock winks, before grabbing onto Mycroft’s hand once more and pulling him toward the bridge. “I can’t promise I can avoid it altogether, brother dear. Mischief tends to _ find _ me.”

“And please don’t draw attention to yourself. I know you know –”

“Okay, mother.” Sherlock rolls his eyes in the ridiculous fashion that only he can pull off which causes Mycroft to snort.

“You are a worse mother hen, Lock. Making sure that I go to my therapy sessions, that I am doing my homework – that I sleep enough.” 

“Well, there’s no one else to keep you accountable, My.” Sherlock stops them partway across the bridge. He looks out, and the slight mist that has gathered in the air gives the rocks the fantastical appearance of floating islands. Otherworldly, indeed. He whispers. “Perhaps, Mycroft – we need to look after each other. No one else could put up with us let alone keep up. Although… you’ve been looking after me all this time… and our crazy sister –” Apart from Victor’s death, neither Mycroft or Sherlock had broached the topic of their murderous sister, but Sherlock knows that Mycroft must have a hand in the bottling of the East Wind. 

“Sherlock. Looking after you is no hardship.” Mycroft brushes a few stray curling locks away from Sherlock’s face, letting his hand linger longer than what is fraternally acceptable. “Especially the last few weeks.”

Sherlock leans into the touch, before Mycroft takes his hand away. He sighs, bereft, just as Mycroft takes out the selfie-stick, and snaps a picture of the two of them together with the scenery behind the imposing bridge as a backdrop. The only thing that’s really missing – Sherlock muses, is a castle hidden amongst the rocks. 

“Do you wish I was a child still?” Sherlock inquires curiously. “Too small to get into trouble…?”

“Oh, Lock – toddler you is the definition of trouble.” Mycroft grins. 

“I mean like – the drugs and my penchant for getting into dangerous situations.” 

“It was hard. I have to say. Standing next to you while you lie on your hospital bed over the years, Lock. And… at…” _ Sherrinford. _

Mycroft freezes – his vision seems to blur and he suddenly sees Sherlock in front of him with the gun tucked under his chin back in that god-awful room – with the safety clicked off. _ God no, Sherlock. _ He wants to roar when he sees his brother squeeze the trigger. His heart is pounding insanely fast, his breaths growing quicker – then he feels palms and fingers at his wrists and he hears the gentle patter of something soothing. 

His brother is talking to him – grounding him. Reminding him that he doesn’t live in a world without Sherlock. That he isn’t in that claustrophobic room anymore. He hears and computes the word _ breathe, _ and he does, taking in the cold air. His breaths slow, matching the pace of his brother’s and soon he feels his head resting against something soft, yet sturdy and fingers gently caressing his scalp, stroking tenderly through his own short hair. 

When he returns to himself, both Sherlock and he are squatting on the bridge. His forehead rests on Sherlock’s shoulder, and his brother is still speaking, his fingertips drawing out soothing patterns on his back. 

“You are okay. Mycroft, I am here. You are here. Everyone is okay. We are in Germany. We are safe. Come back. Come back to me, My. Just a flashback. I am sorry for triggering –”

“No, it’s fine.” Mycroft draws breath. “Exposure. It’s necessary. To reprogram my brain.” 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock whispers. 

“Yes. Just need a moment, Lock.” Mycroft replies somewhat shakily. “I am lucky. You know. It means the world to me that… you care, brother dear.” He then adds, looking up at his brother, feeling uncharacteristically brave – or rather unlike himself. Needing to unburden something that had always bothered him over the past few years. “When you remember the things I said about sentiment later on – dismiss it as a pile of nonsense – Lock. I will always care about you. For you. Remember that. Remember that always.” 

“I know. Brother. You’ve shown me.” Sherlock nods seriously – his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, Mycroft. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.” He exaggerates his breaths, making it easy for his brother to follow. 

He doesn’t know how long they squat there, just breathing. Mycroft’s breaths are ragged and Sherlock wishes desperately that he could do more – to take away the flashbacks, the dreams, the nightmares and the anguish. Is this how his brother feels? When Sherlock is dealing with the brunt of his own memories? His own demons? His own slew of bad decisions? Over the course of the past few days? Feeling utterly helpless? In his old recollections, Mycroft had always been there – a solid figure standing over him. An untouchable being. The only connection between them being their parents. An insurmountable chasm had seemed to exist between them. 

But – Sherlock knows that the brain sees what it wants to see. It is how he had chosen to perceive Mycroft over the years. The words _ you see but you fail to observe _ float to the forefront. The worry in Mycroft’s eyes – the fear whenever Sherlock had a close brush with death. No. His brother is as human as it gets… and he wants nothing more than to hug him tight. The truth is – as intelligent as they both are – they had both failed to _ observe. _He refrains from hugging, as overcrowding Mycroft during such an episode seems like a terrible idea. With his free hand, he rubs at his denim-clad knees – feeling the cold seep bone-deep within. He shivers. They must have been here for at least half-an-hour like this. Mycroft’s eyes are closed, but his breaths have resumed their regular comforting cadence. 

And then they open, and his brother says – having deduced Sherlock’s need. “You can. You know. Come here.” 

Sherlock flings himself around his brother, and allows Mycroft to pet him. He never wants to be too old for this. Somehow, he has the sense that his old self is deprived of touch like this – and the idea of living without it is depressingly bleak. Knowing how nice it is. It’s funny how he needs to be comforted after comforting his brother. He makes the observation to his brother, and Mycroft chuckles and kisses him fondly on the cheek before finally letting go. 

“Shall we continue? We can warm up at the restaurant later and enjoy the view from a warmer space.” 

“Whatever you want, brother.” Sherlock replies, and they continue their journey over the bridge. 

* * *

Oof. Sherlock collapses into a bench in a park near the hotel that Mycroft and he are staying at. He feels dizzy, having been forcefully woken up by Mycroft. Then pushed into the loo to get ready for the day – he had barely gotten his clothes on before big brother had shooed him out the door – as Mycroft is already late for his session with his psychologist as it is. Mycroft had even waited for Sherlock to get on the elevator before he had gone back in – paranoid that Sherlock would stay and listen at the door. 

Perhaps talking Mycroft into going to a fancy nightclub last night had not been the best idea. He didn’t even know why he had wanted to go – the place had been packed with whirling, perhaps even _ thirsty _goldfish enjoying a mix of techno and EDM under bright lights. It was easy to spot the individuals who had indulged a little in the club – ecstasy, liquid ecstasy, ketamine – LSD – the usual club drugs. None of them had been Sherlock’s drugs of choice – there had been one time where he had taken a hit of liquid ecstasy and he had been ridiculously horny all night long. But he had turned twenty-one in there. And Mycroft had been shooting daggers with his eyes at everyone who had dared to look at him for too long. He sighs. Overprotective big brothers. He had danced a little by himself (big brother absolutely refused, preferring to glare at the sidelines), deduced a little with Mycroft and had a drink before they had left at midnight. 

On a whim, he pulls out his phone and dials Greg. He has approximately an hour to kill – depending on how long it takes Mycroft to do whatever it is he does with his psychologist. When Greg picks up at the other end, Sherlock calls out loudly.

“I am bored!” 

“Oh, good morning to you too, Sunshine.” The droll sarcasm of the detective inspector reaches his ears on speaker. “Some of us do have work this morning…”

“You are just filling paperwork anyways, Greg.”

“I am still Greg, hm?” There’s a sound that suggests Greg had taken a sip of terribly brewed coffee. 

“Or would you rather I start forgetting your name again? I remember now. The day we met.” Sherlock says earnestly. 

“Oi! It took almost two decades for you to get it right! Let’s not regress – alright? So, this call does have a purpose. To reminisce.”

“I guess so. Still bored. Entertain me, Detective Inspector.” 

“Don’t call me that, you sound like your brother.” Greg groans – there is a loud scratching noise suggestive of a mistake that had been crossed out with a pen. 

“Had some cocaine that day. The day I met you. The murder was an _ affaire de passion _ featuring a young lady from France. Donovan had a little fun with Anderson in the morning. Cleaning supplies closet. Blowjob –”

“I didn’t know you offered specific deductions on sex…” Greg says amusedly. “Has something changed this time around, Sherlock?”

“My relationship with my right hand is still going strong.” Sherlock offers, and Greg snorts. 

“Suppose having your brother around isn’t conducive to having a sex life.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Sherlock says carefully, remembering Mycroft’s discouraging glares from last night. But, fuck it – he is curious this time around. To some level he had enjoyed it, having people stare at him. Ogle his bum. But then again, there is the matter of _ touch _ and the matter of his aging. 

“Well, if you do – be safe.” Greg offers in his usual kindly way. 

“Yes. For sure.” Sherlock replies absently – in his mind, a collection of the men he had been stealing second glances at parade through. Tall, dark-haired – preferably furry and well-hung. Bears. He muses. Clearly he has a type. But it’s not just lust… Sherlock isn’t naive to know that there must be an emotional connection – a trust – to get through the _ touch _issue. 

“I have to go now, Sherlock – meeting with one of the higher-ups. Do take care of yourself, alright? I will talk to you later then. Ciao!” 

Greg hangs up, and it leaves Sherlock pondering. No, if he wants to explore his sexuality, he would have to wait until he’s thirty-seven again. His mind diverts to Mycroft. The constant puzzle in his mind. What does Mycroft look at? The couples back at the lagoon? It takes him back to an old conversation:

_ “You… don’t do this with other people, Myc? No children? No – um… wife…” Seeing the look on big brother’s face, he quickly amended, “Husband? Boyfriend?” _

_ “Not for a long time, little brother. And certainly – no children. Mia is probably the closest to a child I will ever have.” _

No, his brother is definitely gay. The sadness in his eyes, his voice – during that day in the lagoon. The wistfulness… He frowns. Mycroft definitely lied the other day. 

_ “I think I have everything that I want, Lock.” _

What does big brother look at? Sherlock steeples his fingers together and hunts through his memories. Unlike him, Mycroft’s eyes don’t seem to focus on anyone or anything in particular. In fact… it seems that it is _ him _ – Sherlock – that is the focal point of his attention. God. That’s crazy – is it not? Not only are they brothers… but… god what would Mycroft even see in him? He’s fucked up his own life too many times to count – and he’s sure there are more inevitable bad decisions headed his way as the days march forward from his past to agonize in despair over. But then again, love isn’t rational. Sherlock scratches his head. 

_ “Oh, Lock – maybe this time around you will find someone that you can stand to be touched by.” _

It’s the only fucking thing that makes sense. The wistfulness, the jealousy(?), the sadness – the lack of a partner in his life or rather the lack of attempt to find someone – even though it is as clear as day to Sherlock that Mycroft longs for one. His brother had even left his job and sought out a sodding psychologist after he – Sherlock – had become afflicted by whatever this condition is. 

And then the other shoe drops… back to the funeral of great-aunt whoever-she-was – Mycroft hadn’t seen him in several years. Was it then that Mycroft had discovered that his feelings were a little more than brotherly? And that he had to hide them? It would make sense – as it correlates with when Sherlock had turned fifteen this time around – Mycroft had backed off noticeably from showing physical affection unless Sherlock had been emotionally needy until the first day in Germany. Sherlock – like usual – had misinterpreted his brother’s behaviour back then. Misinterpreting his poker-face for cold indifference. 

Fuck. And it would be convenient – wouldn’t it? Mycroft is the only person Sherlock could stand to touch and be touched by intimately. He would have to keep this knowledge to himself though. 1) What if he’s wrong? 2) Mycroft is probably too honourable to do anything with him until he hits the age of thirty-seven. 3) He needs to find out if this would work – for him. It would devastate both of them – Sherlock is sure – if he pursued it and it didn’t work out. He needs more data. Fortunately, he has time. 

At some point, Sherlock had stood up from the bench and had started walking. There is a light amount of snow falling from the skies, and eventually the soft miaow of a cat catches his attention. A big fluffy cat – a maine coon looks up at him with its inquisitive blue eyes. All orange fur and white mitts. Complete with a milky mustache. Like Ching Shih, this cat wears a harness and clearly enjoys being walked frequently. He misses his cat – nothing like having a non-judgemental, _ intelligent, _ animal companion – actually scratch that – Ching Shih probably thinks both Mycroft and he are stupid. Or that humans are dumb in general. Well – she isn’t wrong. He squats down, and the cat nuzzles at his knees – making a happy purring noise – and on the other end of the leash – a tall man close to his current age. 

* * *

Mycroft pulls his coat tighter around him when the wind blows. Of course, Lock is out roaming about in a park on this freezing-cold day. These therapy sessions seem to be getting worse as hard as it is to believe. A too-detailed discussion about the things that are outside of his control. And Mycroft hates not being in control. And Sherrinford had been a classic example as to how out of control Mycroft really is when push comes to shove. Or rather, how little control he really has in the long run. It had all been a farce hidden under layers of arrogance. The key word of the session had been _ acceptance. _

Ghastly. Learning to accept his failures. Learning to accept that he can never control what really matters. He laughs bitterly. How many times over the years had he tried to control Sherlock? A failure every time, that’s for certain. It – of course, reminds him of his feelings for his brother – another thing that is beyond his control. But that, he had accepted long ago once he realized that fucking his way through goldfish simply wouldn’t cut it. So he had abstained, relying on his right hand, and a few choice toys. 

He hears the laughter first. Sherlock leaning against a tree, while chatting with someone who is taller than him – in German. A large cat prowls around, a proud majestic creature larger than most dogs. The dark-haired man is clearly into his brother – a young university student from Technische Universität Dresden who studies some sort of engineering. They actually look good together. 

A pang hits him in the chest. His fears had come true – that Sherlock is interested in having a relationship with someone this time around. Maybe when Lock regains all of his memories, he might actually go play happy families with Dr. John Watson, now that he’s discovered his hidden sexuality. Before Mycroft could turn tail and slink off somewhere to pity himself – his brother notices him. Sherlock bids a hasty goodbye to his new friend(?) and runs toward him. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaims – hugging him in greeting. 

Mycroft disentangles himself from Sherlock’s arms, and utters as dispassionately as he could. “Perhaps, we ought to tone down the physical affection if you want a boy–”

“Oh god, My. No.” Sherlock shakes his head in dismay. “We just had a mutual interest in cats. I miss Ching Shih, Mycroft – I just wanted to spend some time with a feline.”

“He was into you, brother mine. And he fits your type.”

“I know, Mycroft. I led him on a bit, but it’s okay. Gave him a fake number.” Sherlock smirks. “Now, can I please have my hug?”

“Later. Lock – I promise you will get it. We should grab some brunch before we do anything else –” 

Sherlock feels a little guilty. “I went downstairs to the café to grab a bite when you kicked me out.”

“Ah, you can afford to eat more, little brother. Come. Let’s start our day.” Mycroft guides them out of the park with lighter footsteps than he had entered with. 

Sherlock shakes his head, while trying to hide a grin – that just the mere suggestion of him chatting up another man is enough to ruffle his brother’s feathers so much. 

Definitely jealousy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The days of home-isolation are over for me. Roaming around the hospital floors again as a student now, so less time to write. I have boards in August so I guess my output for writing will be going down when that nears. Just a heads up! Stay safe everyone!


	15. A sleigh-ride kiss

If there is a past life, Mycroft isn’t quite sure what unforgivable sins he had committed to deserve this.  _ This  _ being a sleigh ride through a snow-laden Bavarian forest at the cusp of sunset on a beautiful yet cloudless day. This had surprisingly been Sherlock’s idea – and said little brother had cunningly closed the healthy gap that had existed between them since the horses had first taken off and had slyly snuck under Mycroft’s thick blankets – under the pretense that he was cold. 

A lie – if Mycroft had ever heard one. Little brother’s warm form had soon made physical contact with Mycroft’s side – and somehow, Mycroft had found his arm resting around his brother’s shoulders, while said brother was using his chest as a pillow. Looking like an angel in this enchanted and whimsical setting. 

But really, Mycroft knows that Sherlock is no angel. 

His brother’s behaviour had changed over the past few days, ever since Mycroft had seen him in that park back in Dresden with that horrid  _ (objectively attractive) _ schoolboy and cat. His eyes no longer roamed, preferring to focus his attentions on Mycroft – and if Mycroft didn’t know any better – it felt awfully like dating. Not that Mycroft had ever been on dates like these – his own experiences had involved at most a dinner and a fuck. 

The first night they had spent at the Christmas market in Nuremberg – debating about what Christmas goods they had wanted to bring back to London while drinking mulled wine (Sherlock) and hot chocolate (himself). Snacking on gingerbread, small fluffy doughnuts, wursts and anything else that was unfortunate enough to cross their path. The way they had discussed ornaments and tree-toppers had made it seem like Sherlock had intended to spend every Christmas hereafter with him. Deep within Mycroft’s chest – that familiar longing ache persisted. And how could he forget Sherlock’s joy when he had found a wooden tree topper of a cat raising a star with its paw. His face had been flushed from the evening winds and warm wine – lit by the light of the displays. Sherlock had never looked so kissable at that moment, and Mycroft had been forced to swallow and look away lest he had lost all his legendary self control. Or at least, what remained of it.

They had gone to the castles – Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau the next day. It had been so cold, Mycroft could have sworn that he had gotten frostbite by waiting for the horse carriages to take them up. Which of course, gave Sherlock the perfect excuse to huddle up close to him – and Mycroft had been no better – hugging little brother for all his worth until the horses trotted up towards them. When they had reached a scenic point to take pictures – Sherlock had asked a passing tourist to take a few shots of them – and at the last second, he had turned his head and planted a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. Little brother had brushed it off as a joke – but that familiar feeling in his chest was back with a vengeance – and Mycroft felt like he was drowning. 

God. It had never felt like this before. The picture itself had come out perfectly – Sherlock’s lips brushing gently  _ (sweetly)  _ against his cheek with the backdrop of the snow-dusted castle that belonged in fairytales. He is beginning to understand why goldfish usually cannot stay friends with their ex-lovers, or people they had feelings for, and cannot have.  _ La douleur exquise _ . The French had elegantly termed it – a heart-wrenching pain of two that can never be. Or  _ saudade  _ – Portuguese for a love that cannot exist. And, even if his brother accepts or god-forbid – reciprocates – the right thing to do would be to discourage him. His brother deserves to be loved by someone who could love him in the sunlight – and not in the shadows. 

But, Mycroft is only human. Painfully human as he had discovered over the course of the last few months. His arm squeezes tighter around his brother, and he swoops down a little to kiss Sherlock’s forehead instead – letting his lips linger longer than he really ought. Both pain and love coexist and mingle in his chest as they had for the past day or so – and when he reluctantly removes his lips, his brother is looking up at him – rewarding his gesture with a smile. 

For once, Mycroft does not have the answers to his questions. Is his inappropriate love corrupting his brother? Do they need to talk? If so, how the fuck does he even bring it up? Because, it really could be a joke to Sherlock – and if he’s unaware, he could be repulsed and leave him for good. But then again, how likely is it that Sherlock hadn’t figured things out? Mycroft is aware that he had rather shown his hand in Dresden with his uncontrollable jealousy. His brother wouldn’t be so cruel to play with his feelings? Maybe the old Sherlock, but not this Sherlock. Or he could choose to do nothing, and let nature run its course. 

“Mycroft, stop thinking.” Sherlock mumbles somewhat irritably. “You are ruining the moment.” He moves his head slightly, and Mycroft almost gasps when Sherlock’s smoothly-shaven cheek comes into contact with his own. “Get out of your head and  _ live  _ for once, won’t you?” 

Mycroft wants to retort –  _ have you met me? _ But wisely he doesn’t speak. His brother’s hand had found its way into his. Sherlock is no longer leaning against him now, looking at him with those gorgeous eyes that really do threaten to take his breath away. As ludicrous as it sounds. It’s difficult to interpret the sentiments that swirl within his irises – and his brother says quietly – his voice deepened by some unfathomable emotion. “I want you to be happy, Mycroft. I’ve been so blind and oblivious over the years of our adulthood. But I  _ see  _ you now.” He draws breath, before daring to go on – there is a noticeable hitch in his first syllable. “I was right, wasn’t I – when we were in that cosmetics shop? And not just in the platonic – fraternal sense?” Sherlock doesn’t let him answer before he keeps going. “I didn’t want to say anything – but, I couldn’t stand it anymore, Mycroft…”

“What can’t you stand?” Mycroft asks, dazedly. He feels as if someone had just smacked his head with a baseball bat, or stumbled blindly into some bizarre alternate universe.

“The pain in your eyes. Oh. I know you try and hide it from me, but you are slipping, Mycroft. Everytime I touch you, talk to you – smile at you. It’s there. And when I see it – I feel it – here.” Sherlock taps against his chest with a knuckle. At Mycroft’s lack of words, he fills the air with more of his own. “It’s okay to love me in the all-encompassing way you do, My.” Sherlock whispers. “It’s not a sin. All you ever wanted was for me to be my best. And you’ve always done the best you could for me under the circumstances. You never took advantage of me. You love me – unconditionally. I know this – even though I don’t have all my memories – but it’s not necessary – I have more than enough evidence. All I can ever hope for – Mycroft –” He tilts his neck to meet his eyes. “Is that one day I can match the regard you have for me. Or more. And don’t bother telling me that I shouldn’t – it’s just going to be another suggestion of yours that I am going to discard. I am not going to change my mind. Don’t waste your breath.” At the flummoxed expression Mycroft wears, Sherlock sighs and says. “Don’t be dull, Mycroft – it really doesn’t suit you. This is where you are supposed to kiss –”

Fuck. Mycroft does so just to shut him up. How can anyone mix absolution and impertinence like that? In a declaration of affections? Their lips are both chapped from the cold, but Sherlock’s are still soft beneath his – pliant and content to let Mycroft dictate the proceedings due to his own lack of experience. Mycroft’s hand slides into Sherlock’s curls – which are long enough for him to grab now – to control this sweet and affectionate kiss. When they break apart, Sherlock gives him another smile and a wink, before initiating the second kiss. 

When they depart the sleigh, their driver simply gives them an indulgent and knowing look, that he undoubtedly gives to every couple who had indulged in a little action behind him.

* * *

“Lock…” Mycroft says warningly as a freshly washed Sherlock pounces onto the bed. 

“Just want to cuddle.” Sherlock murmurs sleepily both from the activities and the hearty meal of fried beef steak and tortellini accompanied with cheese and soup. “I solemnly promise I will behave myself.” 

“Come here then.” 

Sherlock climbs into his brother’s arms and is immediately embraced. He brushes his cheek against his brother’s freshly shaven one, letting their noses touch. His brother radiates quiet affection, and Sherlock wants to stay here forever. 

“You will get bored.” Mycroft deduces his thoughts.

“No I won’t.” Sherlock refutes. He then observes, “You are still behaving like I am one of your fragile vases.” 

Mycroft sighs, reaching upward to comb through his curls. “Lock. This doesn’t feel real to me. It’s a fantasy. You aren’t completely yourself yet – without all your memories.” He inhales loudly, unsure whether to continue. “It’s too good to be true. And, if we do this – I think it will destroy both of us if you regret it at any point –”

“You are too scared to invest.” 

Sherlock pulls away from Mycroft’s arms, suddenly feeling forlorn. He doesn’t want to have to fight for every scrap of non-brotherly affection. It should be freely given, or it won’t work. He might have never been in a relationship, but he knows at least that much. He doesn’t want Mycroft to resent him either. It hurts to withdraw like this, when every molecule of his body is screaming at him to go back. He himself is positive that any memory between now and his thirty-seven year old self would not change his affections for his brother – and he needs to find a way to convince him of that, or give it up until he’s thirty-seven. Both daunting and unsatisfactory options. And it hurts too – knowing that his brother wouldn’t trust him with his heart – even though Sherlock is sure that it beats for him. He tries to hide the unhappiness on his face as he moves to retreat to his own bed – but Mycroft sees it instantly.

“Lock.” His brother gets up and moves toward him.

Sherlock leaps across the space that separates their beds, fleeing to his own bed. He doesn’t want consolatory affection from Mycroft. Slipping under the thick hotel quilts, he curls in a fetal position – while the phrase ‘brotherly friends’ come back to haunt him. Is this what Mycroft had felt all the time? That when one loves someone, the sip of friendship pales in comparison? That it’s not enough? It’s ridiculous too, now that Sherlock goes back and examines the men he had been staring at – they all resemble Mycroft. And he knows that big brother loves him. Loves him fiercely in all the ways you could love another being. Does it really hurt less not to try? 

He feels his mattress dip. 

“Go away.” Sherlock mumbles deep in his cocoon of quilt. 

He can hear his brother’s exasperated sigh. But Mycroft doesn’t vacate the bed. The mattress moves under Mycroft’s weight as he crawls over to where Sherlock hides in the middle of the queen-sized bed. A hand strokes Sherlock’s scalp through the quilt. Against his will, Sherlock leans into the touch. He isn’t even allowed to sulk in peace. 

“Ever so petulant, my Lock.” His brother says fondly. 

“M’not.” Sherlock crosses his arms. 

The hand moves lower, caressing his cheek. “You are cute when you get like this.”

“Not cute!” He retorts resentfully. 

“So resentful. When you don’t get what you want.” Mycroft observes, as Sherlock throws off the quilts in a dramatic fashion. “Sometimes, it’s like you never grew up.”

“But, you love me anyways.” 

The words escape out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop them. It brings him to a halt. He looks at his brother. Really looks at him for the first time since after those magical  _ (yes!) _ kisses in that sleigh. It had been too dark out then when they had dismounted and driven the hour or so back to town. They had been too cold and too hungry at that restaurant, scarfing down their Bavarian fare with a relish. Mycroft looks his age under the lighting, looking tired and worn. His eyes darkened with affection, tempered by worry. But, handsome. How had he missed that? Especially the first time around? Jokes about weight-gain and diets echo loudly in his mind. Things that Sherlock had said to keep his brother at a distance, knowing that they do hit a sensitive spot somewhere within his otherwise invincible brother.

His brother looks away for a moment, before saying. “I do.” Those blue eyes turn back toward him, and he continues softly. “Of course I do love you, brother mine. There’s been no one else.”

“Then… why must you push me away?” Sherlock asks, trying to keep the petulance at bay.

“Because I love you.” Mycroft smiles sadly. 

“Is it really not worth a try? Things…” Sherlock exhales. “Weren’t really better the first time around, were they?” 

A shake of the head. Mycroft grimaces before saying. “You are not in possession of all the facts, Lock. And, the truth is – the deeper we go, brother dear – the greater the arsenal we have against the other. If you decide at any point it’s not –”

“Mycroft. I won’t regret it. If not you, there will never be anyone else. And certainly not Dr. John Watson.” Sherlock says firmly, shuddering with revulsion. 

For some reason, Mycroft thinks he has a secret longing for that short man. Perhaps his future memories will inform him, but Sherlock is sure he will not be viewing them in the same light as his previous self. “Anything worthwhile always comes with risk, brother. That’s not new.”

“I know.” Mycroft acknowledges. He sighs. “It’s getting late, brother. We should sleep on it.” 

Sherlock crawls over to his brother. Tentatively he leans forward, and he feels Mycroft’s hand bury itself into his curls. His lips brush sweetly against his brother’s. A goodnight kiss. Reluctantly they both break it off, but Sherlock will take it as a victory. He just needs to find a way to win the war. Patience. As much as he despises the concept, it’s needed. He needs to show his brother over the next few days how much he means to him. If he’s lucky, Mycroft will crack before Sherlock turns thirty-seven. He smirks. Wooing and courtship. At this modern age. After sharing one last fond look, Mycroft leans over to peck at Sherlock’s cheek, before vacating the bed for his own. Throwing the quilts over himself one more time, Sherlock goes to sleep. 

* * *

The sounds of pleading moans makes their way to Sherlock’s ears in the middle of the night. In between them, he could hear unintelligible mumbling and restless movement against the mattress. Shit. His brother is having a nightmare again. He never knows what to do with them. The temptation is obviously to try and wake Mycroft up, but that is not easy. One time Sherlock had almost gotten punched in the face, and he had quickly retreated – Mycroft none-the-wiser about the incident. He knows that his brother would never forgive himself if he had ever learned about it. The recommendations after a quick search online suggests leaving the dreamer alone, as the nightmare should subside on their own. He hears whimpers – sniffs and then actual intelligible words.

“Sherlock… Sherlock – please. Don’t.” 

It’s not the first time he’s heard words from these nightmares, but it’s the first time he’s heard his name being mumbled in such a heartbreaking fashion. 

“Don’t… don’t. Leave. Me.” 

Sherlock pulls the quilts tighter to his body. 

“Please… please. Put that down – Sherlock!!!!” 

Oh god. That was loud. Hopefully no one knocks on the door in the middle of the night. His brother thrashes the bed violently a few times before becoming still once more. The sounds of quiet sobbing follow, and it tears at Sherlock’s heart. This is probably one of the worst dreams that Sherlock had ever witnessed. And his brother had been doing well in terms of sleep ever since they had left for the Continent. Unable to stay in bed any longer, Sherlock grabs his phone and slips out of the bed. His brother has had four out of the ten cognitive behavioural therapy sessions, and it’s hard to say whether or not it’s working since the days are so variable. Good days. Bad days. Sherlock keeps a spreadsheet of incidents on his phone to keep track, along with a few brief notes about each event. It’s still too early to say. When he climbs onto his brother’s bed, he hears.

“Sherlock. Sherlock?” His brother’s breathing is quick. “Is… that you?”

“Yes, brother – it is.” 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft seems to look right at him – but Sherlock can tell that he’s still deep in REM sleep, judging by his irregular breathing pattern and the rapid movements of his eyes. “Oh, Sherlock.” A hand reaches out and strokes his cheek. “My Lockie.” 

“Yes, your Lockie.” Sherlock humours his brother, feeling really lost. 

“My beautiful boy.” Mycroft whispers in awe. “You are here.”

“Yes, Mycroft. I am here.” Sherlock murmurs, unsure if his brother is perceiving anything. This is getting weird. The compliment feels rather backhanded too. Boy? Him being beautiful? But the words are sincere. 

And then his brother blinks, before falling back onto his pillow – and then he awakens with a start. 

“Good Lord.” Mycroft’s voice is hoarse. “What happened?” He groans, getting up and switching on the lamp next to him. He breathes slowly while bringing his palm to his face, wiping off the copious amounts of sweat. 

“You had a nightmare, brother. You mumbled my name a lot, screamed it and cried. I am surprised no one is at the door to complain yet.” Sherlock says as neutrally as he can. 

“Did I, did I – hurt you?” Mycroft asks cautiously.

“No. You called me a beautiful boy though.” 

His brother smiles slightly. “You are though.” 

“I am not.”

“Always so contradictory, brother mine.”

Sherlock feels his brother’s arms envelop his torso, and he feels himself being pulled into big brother’s lap. Mycroft’s now-stubbly cheek presses comfortingly against his own and Sherlock sighs, allowing himself to melt into his brother’s embrace. They sit there like this for who knows how long, before Sherlock breaks the quiet.

“Did I die when you screamed?”

Mycroft takes a few moments to answer, taking deep breaths beforehand. His words are said calmly, but Sherlock can hear how perturbed his brother actually is. “I don’t know if it correlated with the action, but you did die. I think that is the first time that has happened. In my dreams.” 

“I’ve died before?”

Mycroft turns and gives him a sad little smile. God. Sherlock has been the recipient of that particular look too often these days. His brother doesn’t say anything, but Sherlock knows the answer. A few moments later, his brother grabs his own phone to check the time and he suggests – changing the topic.

“It’s almost six, Lock – shall we drive to Munich to get breakfast?”


	16. A day in Munich

A fierce orange cat – a toyger – bounds straight into Sherlock’s lap. Bright orange fur, black stripes – gives him a minature tigerlike appearance. The cat immediately turns in a circle in Sherlock’s lap, before settling down, giving Mycroft a glimpse of his nametag clipped onto his collar – Axel. His brother’s lips curl into a small smile of delight, and his hand immediately goes to pet the cat, running his hand against the soft furs of the feline’s head and neck. Axel purrs with satisfaction – and Mycroft can’t help but think what it might be like to be touched in a similar fashion. Not good. He tells himself. Lock isn’t fully himself; it would be a mistake to start something now – Sherlock isn’t even of the age where he had first met the damnable Dr. John H. Watson. 

At the same time, Mycroft cannot help but look. Lock is so strikingly different this time around. A bespoke charcoal shirt with the top buttons left undone, a pair of comfortable jeans and a red-edged tan-coloured shawl with subtle oriental designs wrapped casually (yet fashionably) around his person. Sherlock had bought the shawl in Nuremberg for much needed warmth. The silky-soft curls that Mycroft had cut a few days ago already tumble over his shoulders. His brother’s face glows with health, his eyes sparkle soberly as he looks down fondly at the cat, no doubt thinking of Mia back at home. It’s endearing. Mycroft watches as Axel’s tongue thoroughly licks Lock’s palm and fingers – coating it with saliva as the feline nuzzles against his palm. 

_ And it’s not just in looks that Lock has changed… _

When they had sat down on the chairs in this cozy cat café, Sherlock had taken the menu, flipped through it and ordered for the both of them. It had caught Mycroft off guard. Never in their entire life had Sherlock ever willingly interacted with the wait staff of any restaurant when the two of them had gone out to eat. If this had been before Sherrinford, Mycroft would have suspected a prank or a joke, but this is Sherlock showing his caring. He had caught little brother scrolling through notes on his phone in the car on the way here – and he had learned that Sherlock keeps an extensive spreadsheet with observations, graphs and even statistical analyses relating to his PTSD. Tracking his triggers, the hours he sleeps, the frequency of nightmares – to list a few parameters. Mycroft had never felt so touched before in his life. 

He smiles when their server approaches, bearing their beverages – a nice English Breakfast blend with the perfect amount of milk for him, and a fancy latte complete with a fern outlined by the foam for Lock. On days that he works, Mycroft prefers a coffee (the blacker the better) to start his day, but on his days of leisure – a good English Breakfast with a dash of milk is the way to go. He sips at his tea and sighs happily. Sherlock picks up his latte cup with his free hand and carefully sips at his drink, closing his eyes as he does so. Little brother looks so at peace and so distinctively kissable…

Shaking his head at the predictable direction of his thoughts, Mycroft refocuses his attention on tea. If this is how Lock is going to play it – showing the depths of his care for his big brother – Mycroft knows that he is doomed. He had never been particularly good about saying ‘no’ to his brother before, and now… 

The server returns, and drops off hearty plates of crispy potatoes, rashers, wursts, two pieces of toast topped with avocado cream and vegetables and fried eggs shaped as hearts for them to share. Sherlock’s eyes twinkle fondly at him when Mycroft fixates on the eggs, and an electrifying tingle goes through him when Lock’s hand reaches over to lightly touch his wrist. Not a word passes Sherlock’s lips, but his expression says plainly –  _ stop fighting this, Mycroft, enjoy yourself for once.  _

Mycroft looks away. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. 

Why can’t things ever be easy between their adult selves? It seems like it had just been yesterday when Lock had been running around naked in a towel – crying over needles and wheedling for ice cream. And then there is pre-Sherrinford Sherlock – terrifying him out of his wits with that bloody clown prank. All the hurtful jibes and jokes that have been hurled by the both of them over the years. The resentful bickering. The scowls. Over the course of his adult life, he had tried to let the pranks and the subtle insults bounce off him, but he hasn’t come out unscathed. And then… that severed head. Those cheekbones, the hair – the splatters of blood – the smell of decaying flesh, the wiggling legs of the early carrion insects… At first glance, it had looked so much like Lock… 

Shoving his chair back, Mycroft stands – feeling incredibly nauseous. 

“Mycroft, are you okay?” Sherlock’s tone is worried.

“The loo.” He rasps with urgency.

Remembering the location of the bathroom that he had seen earlier, Mycroft hurries his way toward the back of the café. He opens the door of the loo, and goes into a stall. 

* * *

Sherlock is flummoxed. What does he do? Mycroft had gone into the loo to throw up. Axel has made his lap a perch, and Sherlock doesn’t quite want to push the cat off his lap. This is a new symptom of PTSD, he muses. Or is the idea of being in an unbrotherly relationship with him that off-putting? Sherlock had followed Mycroft’s train of thought up to the point of all the cruel blows they had exchanged in his past adult life. Not that he has memories of them all, but even at twenty-four, there are plenty of things that Sherlock had said and done that make him cringe and wonder why Mycroft loves him at all. It’s a matter of trust. Perhaps he should stop pushing his brother for this. Based on the old data, he certainly doesn’t blame Mycroft for not trusting him with his heart. He sips some more of his latte – fortifying himself with more caffeine, before turning his attention to Axel.

“Soll ich ihm nachgehen?” <Shall I go after him?>

Axel’s intelligent eyes peer up at him. “Mrow? Yow.”

“Ich habe mich ihm gegenüber mein ganzes Leben lang wie ein Arschloch verhalten.” <I’ve been an arse to him all my life.>

A flick of the tail. Axel is unimpressed. 

“Ich sorge mich um ihn.” <I care for him.> 

“Yow-ow.” Axel leaps off Sherlock’s lap and leaves in a haughty manner, seemingly displeased by his temporary job as confidant. Or, perhaps – at the pathetic state of affairs. Or maybe at his behaviour. It’s hard to tell with cats. 

Making up his mind, Sherlock gets up and heads to the bathroom. He can’t give up now. Pushing open the door, he can hear his brother making retching sounds behind the walls of the stall. Awkwardly, he knocks on the wood. “Mycroft, are you okay?”

“Ugh. Yes. I am okay.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he realizes the door to the stall isn’t locked. He opens it, finding his brother on his knees, dry-heaving into the toilet in front of him. His brother looks pale and embarrassed, but Sherlock simply lays his hand on his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. 

“You shouldn’t have to see this, Lock.” Mycroft says simply. “I am sorry.”

“No, My – there is no need to apologize. You’ve seen me at my worst and did your best to help. Just, please – let me help you.” Sherlock tries to look as earnest as he can. “Unless, the very idea of me makes you want to throw –”

“No, Lock.” Mycroft sounds horrified. “Never. It was another flashback. Eurus…” He whispers, quietly. “This isn’t something past you knew anyways.”

“Tell me.” Sherlock squats down, meeting his brother at eye level. “Or don’t. It’s up to you.”

“Lock…” Mycroft retches once more. 

Sherlock finds his hand gently stroking Mycroft’s back. His brother is breathing deeply and slowly, trying to gain control of his body once more. How vulnerable Mycroft looks, looking nothing like the haughty governmental entity that his past self had built up in his mind. It’s strange to have the tables turned – he can recall himself being sick after his highs and other complications associated with his risky behaviours and Mycroft nursing him through all of it. But at the same time, it’s not hard to do this at all. To look after his brother. It’s as natural as breathing. And he’s been doing it since he was a child this time. Affection wells up in his chest, as he suppresses the urge to take his brother in his arms. Perhaps this temporary transformation had been necessary to rebuild their fractured relationship, fraught with so much pain in the past. If this is the price he had to pay (to grow up again), then he really has no complaints. 

“I think I am okay now.” Mycroft says – his tone level, minutes later. “I am going to go rinse out my mouth.” He gets up.

“Okay.” Sherlock follows him out. 

His brother washes his hands, before cupping some of the water and bringing it to his mouth to rinse. He repeats it several times, as Sherlock remembers his well-licked hand and he uses the sink next to it to scrub at his own hands. He watches Mycroft straighten out his shirt and woolen jumper, and use his elegant fingers to put his hair back into an acceptable state of order. 

God. He could watch Mycroft all day long and not get bored. 

“Something wrong?” Mycroft inquires.

“Huh?” Sherlock realizes he had been scrutinizing his brother for too long while doing nothing. Standing there like a mesmerized, bewitched idiot. One step above a gaping goldfish. “No. Not at all. You look… good.”

“Right…” Mycroft shakes his head with skepticism as he exits the loo. 

Sherlock sighs and follows him out. Too many diet jokes, and not enough compliments. He resolves to change that. 

* * *

The rest of the day goes without a hitch, both Sherlock and Mycroft spend it quietly – glancing at each other in quiet contemplation when they think the other isn’t looking. They wander about the cobblestone streets of Munich’s old town, taking in the architectural beauty. It is charming, and dare Sherlock say – a romantic setting. They link arms, but Sherlock feels as if Mycroft is existing on another plane, pondering through thoughts that Sherlock cannot discern. 

In the late afternoon, they set off for Therme Erding, an enormous complex consisting of a spa and another waterpark. The perfect place to spend the winter. They check into their resort suite, and Mycroft opts to go down first to the pools while Sherlock figures out the dry-cleaning for the both of them (he volunteered). 

When he finally makes it to the baths, Sherlock notes that Mycroft is already soaking in a pool, lounging on his own by the wall. His brother turns to look over at him – his skin already reddened by the heat. The gaze Mycroft directs at him is frank admiration and filled with affection. It causes Sherlock to stop and look at himself, clad only in a pair of plain swimming trunks. He is lean and sinewy still, despite the quantities of excellent food that he had been ingesting during their entire trip. His hand slides over his well-defined rectus abdominis – he’s caught both men and women alike glancing at him on the way here in his semi-nude state. It’s nice to know that he is attractive, but it’s far more thrilling to know that Mycroft finds him visually appealing as well. Another point in his favour. 

He steps into the bath, almost sighing at how comfortably hot the rich mineral-laden water is. It is perfection. The steam rises from the water, and he slowly wades his way towards Mycroft. Needing to adopt some semblance of normalcy, he remarks with a bit of levity. “Really, Mycroft – you chose the Fountain of Youth?”

“I am not exactly a spring chicken anymore, Sherlock.” Mycroft replies quietly. 

“Forty-four isn’t old.” Sherlock says. 

“I am almost twenty years older than you at this point. Does that not bother you?” 

Why would Mycroft’s age bother him? Sherlock muses to himself. Oh. A possible objection for a romantic relationship. Is Mycroft reconsidering his stance? 

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t care, Mycroft. I really don’t. Besides, when this is all done and dusted, I will only be seven years younger than you. Perfectly respectable. And perhaps, I like my men – mature.” He winks. 

“You really ought to enjoy your youth.” Mycroft sighs. “I am tying you down with my –”

“Mycroft. I am here because I want to be here with you. Yes, I could be spending the holidays with Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson – but I  _ chose  _ you.” 

Sherlock gently reaches for his brother’s wrist and examines big brother’s hand, letting his own fingertips trace the creases of the palm. The skin is already starting to wrinkle. “And I want to look after you, as you did for me. And continue to do for me. Be an equal partner in all things. I wish you would believe me, but I understand. I was cruel and awful to you, and I can say that without fourteen years of memory. I wish I had your trust, but I know I don’t deserve it. You deserve better.” Sherlock says solemnly. 

“But, Lock – I do trust you.” Mycroft whispers, letting his hand grasp Sherlock’s. “You’ve shown me in the last few months. Even before the incident.” His blue eyes look at Sherlock’s, full of care and something else. “I do love you. Love you in ways that I really shouldn’t. But, I love you to the point where I want to do the right thing for you. You are so young –”

“People get married when they are in their adolescence.” Sherlock mumbles somewhat grumpily. 

“And how many of those end in divorce?” His brother asks pointedly. At Sherlock’s lack of answer, Mycroft nods – having proven his point. 

“But I am not a statistic, My – I am me. And I am not the me of the past. I know I was a wildcard – a person not to be depended on. Who lived for the highs of life. On the edge. But I am not that person anymore, Mycroft. I know this –”

“Then you can wait until you are thirty-seven, Lock –”

“We are wasting precious time, Mycroft. I don’t want to wait.” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “The fallout if this doesn’t –”

“Everything worthwhile has risk, Mycroft. Is it really better to live with longing? A fantasy to be indulged in, rather than the real thing? For every scenario you catastrophize, there’s a scenario that works out. A happily ever after. Don’t you want to test your hypothesis?” The words flow passionately out of him. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft chuckles lightly before saying indulgently. “To be young and passionate.” He presses a light kiss against Sherlock’s cheek. “We should wait before making a decision. I want us to be on the same page at least.”

Sherlock sighs deeply. At the current rate, it would be two months before he reaches his original age. And two months feels like an eternity. Mycroft’s got to crack at some point. But then again, even if he doesn’t, Sherlock knows he has to stay. He needs to show his brother that he is sincere. That he wants this. That he only wants him. Mycroft had tolerated his utter thoughtlessness for the greater part of two decades, so two months seem like a bargain in comparison. Big brother does have a point though – that it’s only fair that Sherlock remembers everything that he has experienced, so that they could go into this on a level playing field. 

“You were looking at the couples back at the lagoon.” Sherlock revisits an old observation from the precious waterpark they had gone to. 

“Yes.” Mycroft agrees. “I was.”

“Not for voyeuristic purposes, but because you longed for –”

“A romantic partner. Yes. Perhaps… I always had.” Mycroft smiles – but there’s sadness in it. 

Sherlock slips his arm around Mycroft’s shoulder. “We could pretend.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Think of it as practice.” Sherlock’s smile grows wider. “For when I am actually thirty-seven – or rather thirty-eight.” He uses his other hand to caress his brother’s cheek, before lightly turning his head so that he could kiss him on the lips. 

His brother lets him, even kissing back a little, before he finally breaks the kiss and stands up abruptly from the seat. “It’s getting hot, I think I am going to take a swim in one of the cooler pools.” 

Watching Mycroft splash his way out of the bath, Sherlock watches how Mycroft’s trunks – with golden fish – cling onto the curve of his pert bottom as he hauls himself out. 

Damn. How did he not notice this before? He lets his finger brush against his own lips, where the sensitive nerve endings are still tingling from their latest kiss. More sweet than anything else, really. Figuring that Mycroft needs some space, Sherlock gets out of the pool as well – opting instead to go grab some currywurst and chips for a quick dinner at a nearby snack bar. 

* * *

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Mycroft looks up at his brother, standing at the edge of the comfortably heated swimming pool with two drinks in hand from the bar. “Get in the pool, it’s freezing outside!” 

“Mm… it’s not so bad.” Sherlock places the drinks down on the tiled ground before slipping into the waters. 

The pool is partially outside and part indoors, with a lovely view of the park lit by lanterns. There is a bit of snow drifting from above, creating the magical sense that they are in a snowglobe. All the other visitors are huddled indoors, crowded around the poolside bar, but out here, they are in a world of their own. Mycroft scrutinizes his drink. It’s a mocktail of sorts that he doesn’t recognize. It’s only when he had stopped indulging in alcoholic beverages when he realized how pervasive drinking culture had been in his own life. He picks up the glass, and his keen nose picks up hints of lime, cinnamon, cardamom bitters, ginger and a bit of nutmeg. 

Sherlock had gone for a strawberry-lemon mojito – the cocktail looking rather like someone had captured the sunset and blended it into a drink. Lock’s face is already flushed, more from the cold. There is a peaceful expression on Sherlock’s youthful face, an expression that Mycroft isn’t familiar with on any variation of adult Sherlock. Could things really change this much? Or is this what past-Sherlock had been like after Sherrinford? After all of his memories had been restored to him? And Mycroft hadn’t even been there to see the effects that Sherrinford had upon Sherlock’s person – aside from occasionally watching him from afar. Too busy wallowing in his own pain and guilt. And feeling somewhat betrayed that Sherlock had chosen to visit Eurus after everything she had done. Numbing his emotions with alcohol. 

God. What kind of pathetic excuse of a brother is he? He thinks not for the first time. Pushing Lock away during his adolescence to hide his own inappropriate feelings, contributing to the self-destructive spiral that Sherlock had found himself in during his adult years. Then letting his arrogance compromise his brother’s safety. And again, he’s trying to put some distance between Sherlock and himself – but is it really the right thing to do? 

Ah. The age old question of Mycroft’s life.  _ We could pretend. _ Sherlock had said earlier in that mischievous way of his. And the kiss. Not of his own volition had he kissed back. But nothing between them could ever be  _ pretend. _ Sherlock asking Mycroft earlier with his beautiful eyes to  _ stop fighting  _ the natural progression of things before his untimely journey to the loo. Yet, separation between them both had always led to misery, hasn’t it?  _ Don’t you want to test your hypothesis? _

He reaches for his glass, and sips. The blend of spices is perfect for this type of setting. His brother had chosen well. He doesn’t even miss alcohol. Sherlock’s gaze is upon him, watching him, deducing him. Radiating fondness. 

Another part of him thinks he’s being silly. In the other aspects of his life, aside from his brother – Mycroft had always been the person who takes what he wants, scruples be damned. And here is what he had always wanted on a silver platter. He’s doing a god-awful job of trying to say ‘no’ to Lock, anyways. Telling him to wait, while kissing him. What kind of mixed messaging is that? 

_ Tell me… _ Lock had inquired in the morning, his hand on his shoulder. 

“Perhaps I should.” Mycroft murmurs more to himself, and Sherlock looks curiously at him. 

“I should… what?” Sherlock is perplexed. 

“Tell you. What I saw this morning.” At Sherlock’s  _ do go on _ expression on his countenance, he continues. “It’s about that day. At the prison we contained her in. Sherrinford is its name.” God. Is he willingly telling Lock one of his greatest failures? Now? He takes another sip of his mocktail, for once wishing that there was a hint of alcohol within it. “I failed you, Lock. Dr. Watson and you – tried to warn me that she was on the loose. That Sherrinford had been compromised, but I didn’t believe it in my arrogance. So we all went to Sherrinford. It… it was a trap. Our sister… had us locked in and a series of ghastly games designed to torment us psychologically commenced. People died, Lock. And at the end…” 

The moment is so hauntingly clear in his memory. Seared into his hippocampus. Of his clever Lock holding the gun, pointing it to himself. That painful pang in his heart. He immediately submerges himself into the pool’s warm waters – not wanting Sherlock to see the broken expression on his face. But little brother follows – Mycroft can feel a hand at his shoulder – Sherlock’s bright eyes looking down at him with such fondness. Such care. The other hand comes down toward him – an offering – and Mycroft feels compelled to grab it. Sherlock pulls him back up to the surface, a grim little smile on his face. 

“I died?” Sherlock whispers, while Mycroft gulps in the air greedily – having not had the opportunity to draw breath when he had gone under. 

Mycroft has to think for a moment – recalling the earlier conversation – before he replies. “No, but the final game – or at least the last game that she could throw at us before you defeated her with your flash of brilliance – was a gun with one bullet.” Drawing another breath, for there is no going back from here – he will be brave. “And you had to pick – Dr. Watson, or I.” 

The look of horror on Sherlock’s face is almost too much to bear. 

His brother then remarks. “I clearly didn’t shoot either of you.” There is a comprehending look that passes through his face. “Eurus – she was always obsessed with me, Mycroft. There is only one solution to this problem – and it is that I kill myself. So…” Sherlock takes a moment to think. “Since I am still here… she didn’t let me do that.”

“No.” Mycroft agrees, almost surprised at how easily Sherlock could predict the choices of his older self. 

“Mycroft. There is no way I would ever kill you. Even if I had forgotten about you and made your life miserable. I wouldn’t be able to. Or how much I resented you at that time.” Sherlock adds, having seen something on Mycroft’s countenance. “No matter how much you egged me on. Insulted me.” And then he says quietly – having realized something. “God. You told me to kill you.” 

“I did.” Mycroft whispers, draining the rest of the glass in one go – the mix of spices and chlorine an intriguing sensation on his tongue. “I had thought…” He swallows uncomfortably. “That you had loved Dr. Watson, you see. All the sacrifices that you’ve made on behalf of his family by putting your life on the line. The care you’ve shown his daughter. No matter how undeserving it seemed. With my death… I thought that I could clear my sins toward you, brother mine. So that you could start anew…” 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock looks absolutely heartbroken. Mycroft knows that Sherlock has no memories of the Watsons, but nevertheless, it feels good to confess. Perhaps it’s selfish, but he knows that Sherlock wants to know. His brother then says, his voice odd and seemingly far away. “You would really do that? For me?”

A nod. “Of course. The whole situation was my fault, Sherlock. But, dearest – I would give my life for yours at any point.” Mycroft then laughs. “I’ve been accused many times in the past for not having a heart, but the truth is – I had given it away a long time ago.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock is looking at him directly now – his eyes darkened with some deep emotion. Underneath the lamplight, and the slowly drifting snow – he looks out of this world – ethereal. His longish curls straightened by the weight of the water clinging onto them. Rivulets of water course down his skin – marking enticing trails that Mycroft would like to explore further in a tactile manner. 

How could he say no to this? 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock reiterates again. His tone firmer this time. He takes a step closer. He is so close that their faces are almost brushing against the other. Despite the coolness of the evening air, Mycroft can feel the heat radiating from Sherlock’s skin. His brother’s hand reaches out – seemingly in slow motion – and his palm presses firmly against Mycroft’s furry chest. 

Mycroft almost gasps at the touch. He could feel his heart beat. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. And the vibrations transmitting to Sherlock. Sherlock closes his eyes – before lightly brushing his temple tenderly against Mycroft’s, and he says quietly. “Mycroft. You don’t need to feel guilty. If you are willing to die for me, then I am willing to wait – if that’s what you need from me. It’s the least I could do. But…” Sherlock utters with gravity. “Please let us have a chance. I want…” His brother trails off.

“What do you want?” Mycroft asks – suddenly feeling too heated despite the cold winds of winter blowing lightly about. 

“I want a chance at happiness. I want to know what it is like to truly love and be loved in return. I don’t want to be a virgin this time around, Mycroft. I might be twenty-four now, but my feelings will remain the same when I am middle-aged, Mycroft. They won’t change. I promise.”

How ardently Sherlock speaks! This feels unreal in so many ways. Like one of those romances that Mycroft likes to rewatch time and time again back in his makeshift cinema back at home. But then again, the plot of this particular story is farfetched in its own way. A modern day forbidden illicit romantic relationship with a past fraught with misunderstandings and resentments. A deaged and much beloved little brother missing a huge chunk of his memories. An older brother besieged by missteps and traumas of the past.

Mycroft takes Sherlock into his arms. He holds him like he had done many times over the past weeks. His brother sighs, letting his head drop down to Mycroft’s shoulder. It feels right, being together like this. Their bodies fit together easily in this embrace. He kisses Sherlock’s damp curls, and his brother makes a happy little noise in response. They stay like this for who knows how long. 

Sherlock isn’t angry at him. Had forgiven him for all the wrong he had wrought into Sherlock’s life. Maybe it might be different when Sherlock is actually thirty-seven and has all his memories back, but somehow the optimistic side of Mycroft makes an appearance and thinks the general sentiment would remain the same. His brother’s absolution for Mycroft’s misdeeds had been something he hadn’t known he had craved until he had it. 

“How could you forgive so easily?” Mycroft whispers in disbelief.

“It’s how you forgive me for everything that I’ve done, My. At the end, the tallies don’t matter – don’t they? We both drew blood, we both made stupid mistakes – and you’ve always tried to do your best with what you knew and had, Mycroft. I only wish I could say the same.” Sherlock says regretfully. “I just wish… I just wish that I knew how I can make things up to you –”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing you have to do for me, Lock. All I wanted ever for you is you to be happy and healthy –”

“Not for me to love you back?” Sherlock looks up at him now. 

“I dared not to dream.” Mycroft admits. “Longing for something that was impossible.”

“It’s possible now.” Sherlock says, his words ever so sweet. “I want you to be happy too, My. Not to be ridden by bad dreams and guilt.” And then he observes – going back to an earlier part of their conversation. “But it isn’t her last problem that made you throw up, wasn’t it?” 

“No. She left a parting gift, Sherlock, at the end in her cell for me.” Mycroft closes his eyes and prepares to steel himself for any flashback that could precipitate. “A head in a box. That resembled –”

“Mine.” Sherlock nods. “And you thought that –”

“You were dead. Yes. That she killed you.”

“Oh, Mycroft – you suffered so.” Sherlock whispers tenderly in his ear. “What a spiteful gift.”

“That’s the East Wind for you. She’s always resented me for having the audacity to have your attention, Sherlock.” 

“I know. Like she resented Victor… but I suppose you were too big and intelligent for her to deal with back then.”

Mycroft shudders with revulsion at the thought. He had never thought of it this way, but it made complete sense. Eurus had despised him when she had been growing up, just as she had despised Victor – and him being her keeper – her gaoler probably did not help matters much. He could be thankful that he had been the eldest sibling and not the youngest. He then says firmly, “She can’t hurt us anymore, Lock. I made sure of that.”

“I know.” Sherlock says, letting his cheek brush against his. “You were always my protector.”

“Some lousy protector I was. You were my knight.” Mycroft finds himself smiling when Sherlock lets his soft lips lightly touch his cheek. “That day in Sherrinford.”

“Mm… We should be each other’s protectors and knights, Mycroft.”

Mycroft kisses Sherlock’s cheek, hoping fervently that there wouldn’t be a need for knights or protectors in their future. If Sherlock truly feels the same way about him, neither of them would be long for the world if the other leaves it – making the idea of self-sacrifice moot. He sighs a minute later, reluctantly breaking their embrace. “Should we get out of here before we turn into prunes, Lock?” 


	17. The Christmas date (or the one where they danced)

“How do I look?” Sherlock asks Ching Shih with some hesitation, fluidly spinning around a full three-sixty degrees for her critical appraisal.

“Mrowr!” The cat leaps down elegantly from her perch on the perfectly-made bed and weaves affectionately between his legs. 

“I take it that you approve. And that we are on speaking terms again, hm – Ching?” He asks with utter seriousness.

Ching Shih had been giving both Mycroft and Sherlock the cold shoulder ever since their return from Germany a few days ago, opting to hide under the beds and sneak down into the kitchen for food when no one was around. Both of them had spent quite a bit of time trying to coax their unhappy kitty-cat out of hiding, but she didn’t buy any of their attempts at appeasement. But when Sherlock had started dressing up with anxiety in one of Mycroft’s spare bedrooms, the cat had finally deigned to make a supportive appearance. 

“Yow!” Ching Shih butts her head against Sherlock’s ankle, as if saying _ don’t you dare leave me again. _

“I would pick you up, but I don’t want to get cat hair on this new suit. Do you think Mycroft would like it? Or is it too bold? Well, Anthea approved of my choices, so I am probably freaking out for no reason… Hmm… maybe I should tie my hair back.” The words leave him in a jittery rush. Sherlock grabs a grey silk ribbon from the dressing table and gathers his curls into a neat and simple ponytail. He sighs. “I can’t wait until my hair starts growing at a normal rate.” 

“Yow-ow-ow!” The crescendoing of Ching Shih’s reply seems to suggest _ don’t be silly, he will love it! _

Perhaps. Sherlock sighs – he can recall Mycroft trying to constantly shove him into suits and ties in his twenties. And here he is, wearing a three-piece voluntarily. A daringly cut salmon-pink shirt, grey waistcoat and a plaid-grey tie in a half-Windsor with a matching suit jacket. He had asked Anthea to get this bespoke ensemble for him over their vacation, and to do so in a way that Mycroft wouldn’t know about it. She had been all too happy to do so. An efficient partner in crime.

God. He feels stupidly nervous. Like a teenage boy on a first date. But then again, his past self hadn’t been one to go on actual real dates without ulterior motives either, so he has no comparable experience to draw upon. This isn’t a ploy to steal information; he just wants to have fun with his brother. Make Mycroft fall in love with him more. Or more importantly, make him happy. Taking one last quick glance at the mirror to make sure all is in order, Sherlock takes a deep shaky breath and leaves the room.

* * *

It takes all of Mycroft’s willpower to not let his jaw drop like a common goldfish. But little brother looks so divine and so edible in his suit while standing so casually at the landing. A formal (but on the rakish side) three-piece suit that Mycroft has never seen before. It suits him perfectly. Damn. Has Anthea been scheming behind his back with Lock? 

It delights him, knowing that one perk of being together with Lock means that little brother would actually take great pains to dress up for him. 

“What’s the occasion?” Mycroft asks, for a lack of eloquent words to say otherwise.

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s Christmas Eve.” He then winks impishly, his eyes twinkling, “Or perhaps, I am going dancing with a devilishly handsome man?” He holds out his hand before Mycroft could make a self-deprecating comment. Mycroft takes it. “Shall we?” 

* * *

The grand baroque-style ballroom is tastefully decorated with Christmasy decor as couples in their finest suits and ballroom gowns whirl around the floor. Sherlock glances over at his brother when the music segues into _ Fly Me To the Moon _ and before he knows it he’s being led by Mycroft into the midst of the dancers in a casual foxtrot. It’s amazing that his body still remembers how to dance – but he supposes it’s like riding a bicycle. Mycroft is a more than competent lead after all. His brother could make a person with two left-feet look like an adequate dancer – Sherlock is sure. 

The feeling of Mycroft’s hands at his back and in his own hand sends pleasant tingly feelings down his spine. Spinning and gliding with ease around the ballroom – Sherlock feels as if he is flying. And how effortlessly he mirrors and complements Mycroft’s moves during the times they separate before coming back together again. It’s as intrinsic as breathing. But this is Mycroft that he is dancing with – and it had been Mycroft who had first taught him how to dance. He knows how Mycroft moves, how he breathes – and even where he is when they are apart like a sixth sense. He knows the significance and meaning behind every touch and gesture that his brother does, and how to react. Instinct. It’s amazing, despite the fact that Sherlock is sure they haven’t danced together in at least two decades. 

Sherlock almost gasps when Mycroft’s arms suddenly wrap around his waist from behind when they come back together again, and they sway for a bit with Sherlock’s bum inadvertently coming into direct contact with Mycroft’s front. There is a burning flush to his cheeks, but they dance gaily onward. The music changes seamlessly as do their moves. From a foxtrot, they go to a waltz, then a quickstep, an exuberant polka and so on and so forth. At some point, the dancing couples around them give them a wide berth – as some drop out to the sides to watch, rest and/or indulge in refreshment. Sherlock is amazed that Mycroft isn’t showing signs of tiring and this observation must show on his face, as Mycroft winks roguishly at him and mouths. “I might be middle aged, dear – but not dead.” 

And then the notes of a sensual Argentine tango fill the air. He’s never danced a formal tango with Mycroft – his brother had deemed it too indecent for someone barely on the cusp of adolescence to dance to it properly. They had always improvised with moves from the other styles whenever tango music had come on. Nevertheless, Sherlock had taught himself the steps and intricacies to a tango (for a case), and in the spirit of Christmas Eve (despite the lack of alcohol-induced bravery) Sherlock is determined to meet this challenge and perhaps, give his stubborn big brother just a little something to think about. 

From the start, it’s startlingly different. Mycroft is so close to him that Sherlock can feel the light stubble of his cheek, and the merest turn of his head would cause their lips to brush together. Their bodies appear to be magnetically drawn to the other, as one of Mycroft’s arms wrap possessively just above the small of his back, and the other hand is holding Sherlock’s hand. They move deliberately, slowly – showing off their legwork, while their cheeks and noses intermittently rub against each other – and Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s hot breath ghost across his skin, like a caress. 

God. Sherlock’s breath hitches when Mycroft runs a hand down his side, down his back, hip and thigh before pulling at the back of his knee creating goosebumps in his wake despite the expensive fabrics of his suit – forcing him to extend his leg behind him, before Mycroft leads him into a series of lightning quick steps – which seem to draw gasps of delight from their growing audience. Soon, they are doing the tango box step, and they find themselves gazing at each other as they create a scorpion’s tail with their hands. 

How expressive Mycroft’s eyes are! It’s obvious that any reservations they have had at the beginning in regard to dancing in public had vanished, and Mycroft is no more able to hide his true feelings than Sherlock. They continue their dance, with Sherlock’s bum grinding repeatedly into Mycroft’s pelvis as they stride forward – and he can hear Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath every time it occurs. Sherlock twirls once, before finding himself leaning backward as far as he could go, with Mycroft’s hands lightly cupping his cheeks and his own eyes widen and he sighs with the audience when lips brush so delicately against his temple. Time had seemed to slow on this move, before they were back to their regular stance and stroll. 

Sherlock manages several elegant kicks, including a backwards one that goes between his brother’s legs – and after the next twirl Mycroft picks him up as if he weighs nothing and spins him round and round on his shoulder. Fuck, his brother is stronger than he looks. Sherlock is totally off-kilter when Mycroft puts him back down, but he takes another few steps before Mycroft picks him up again – his bent legs sandwiching Mycroft’s torso, while his back arcs so that his head extends beyond Mycroft’s shoulder. As he is slowly being returned back to the ground, Sherlock takes the opportunity to slide his bum as salaciously as he can against Mycroft’s front. 

He smirks at Mycroft when his feet touch the floor, and his brother returns it with an amused smirk of his own as they stride along, punctuating with a twirl every now and then. From then on, their touches linger to the point of indecency. When Sherlock leans back, and draws his back up again, he makes sure that his front presses against Mycroft’s chest. His chin meets Mycroft’s temple and he nuzzles down Mycroft’s face with his nose. 

Every move, every touch, every look – seems to heighten the want between them. 

As much as Sherlock just wants to press up against Mycroft and bury his face against his delectable neck, they return to the less suggestive footwork of the beginning of their dance for the sake of the dancing public. As the music is about to end, Mycroft picks him up again in a lift – and the audience bursts into applause. 

“I can see why you didn’t want to do this when we were younger.” Sherlock remarks as they finally walk off the dance floor – both having worked up a sweat. “It’s utterly inappropriate.” 

“Mm…” Mycroft smiles when they find a quiet and very discreet corner to calm themselves down. “Indeed. God.” He whispers – closing his eyes and appearing to mentally count to ten in order to collect himself. “You’ve tangoed before. I am jealous.”

“I did.” Sherlock agrees. “No need to be jealous, My. Needed to infiltrate a dance school to solve a murder for Lestrade when I was almost twenty-five. But, it wasn’t like this.” He shakes his head. It had been clinical and textbook – nothing of the passionate fluidity and eroticsim that had unfolded tonight. Seeing the obvious want in Mycroft’s eyes, he adds cheekily. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

“God. I really shouldn’t.” Mycroft says, his voice pained. His hands run along Sherlock’s back, sending frissons down the spine. “I really really shouldn’t.” 

The arms pull Sherlock closer, and he nuzzles against Mycroft’s neck as his brother kisses his temple. Sherlock counters. “Maybe you should. I am far from unwilling. Kiss me properly, at least then – My.” 

His brother tenderly cups his jaw and lets his temple brush against Sherlock’s before letting their lips meet in a slow sweet kiss. Their noses nuzzle affectionately against each other. Sherlock doesn’t ever want this to end. Breathing is so unnecessary, he thinks as they break apart, needing oxygen to fend off the threatening hypoxia. Damned proper big brothers – Sherlock wants Mycroft to do all the indecent things to him. Preferably a horizontal tango on Mycroft’s lovely bed. 

“I love you.” Mycroft whispers, sensing Sherlock’s mood. 

“I know. I want you, My.” Sherlock replies, burying his face deeper into his shoulder. “I am young and horny… I think I will die of sexual frustration before I reach the ripe old age of thirty-seven.”

“Ripe old?” Mycroft snorts. “Mind your audience, or you may never get laid or let alone get another kiss –”

Sherlock leans forward to kiss Mycroft into silence. 

“You did fine without sex the first time –”

“But now I have a hot significant other to tango with, and now all these primitive urges of mine have awakened and are making their demands upon my poor innocent body –”

“My poor dear…” Mycroft pecks at his cheek. 

“It’s all your fault.” Sherlock murmurs. “You should make it better.”

“When you are older, Lock –”

“My…” Sherlock just simply lets himself be held, knowing that additional verbal arguments are futile. He is bloody older!

As the music in the distance starts up again, they sway to its beat – and Sherlock allows himself to melt into his brother while hoping fervently for the first time that he would buck the current trend of aging and wake up as his thirty-seven year old self the next day. 

* * *

“We did a good job.” Sherlock grins proudly at the neatly laid out dining table (the big formal one in the actual dining room, rather than the small table they would regularly eat at in the kitchen). They had prepared most of the dishes before they had gone out dancing without too many mishaps. There is the roast goose, the salmon en croute, a small dish of honey-glazed carrots and parsnips, creamy cauliflower soup and a English trifle for dessert. He pulls out his phone and takes a snap of their efforts. “Mummy would be upset at the lack of Christmas pudding though…” 

Mycroft winces at the mention of their mother. “It would be too much food for us –”

“I am not complaining, My – and I know it’s your favourite. I am surprised that our parents haven’t demanded our presence –”

“Oh, they are still upset with me, brother mine – and I told them that you’ve been dealing with an international case on my behalf for the last few weeks. Absolutely hush-hush. They’ve decided to go to Australia and New Zealand for a long trip… to escape their wayward children. They’ve been gone since the beginning of this month.” At Sherlock’s inquisitive look, Mycroft adds. “They are still trying to process our sister’s existence, you know. Uncle Rudy and I lied to them. We told them that Eurus perished in the fire, but we both decided to tell them about her existence after Sherrinford, minus all the murderous details.” He then chuckles – but Sherlock can hear the sadness. “They might not want to come back…” 

“How’s sister dear like?” Sherlock pulls out a chair and gestures for Mycroft to sit, which he does. He then scampers around the table to sit down across from him. He puts the golden Christmas cracker aside for later (it contains luxury chocolates). 

“Sullen. Refuses to make eye-contact with people. Doesn’t speak. She’s willing to pick up her violin and play a duet with you when you go visit her – but that’s about it. Still sulking from losing her game, I suppose.” Mycroft stands up again to carve the goose. “Where’s Mia? Or has Her Majesty only forgiven you, and not me?” 

“I visited her?” Sherlock sounds surprised, considering that she had wanted to kill his favourite person in the entire world. He sips at his glass of still water. “And Ching Shih will come down when she’s hungry.” 

“Yes. Only twice though – I think you gave it up. You wanted to be a good big brother to her.” Mycroft replies, and Sherlock muses that perhaps he had come to his senses then.

“And you weren’t mad at me? For going?” Sherlock asks somewhat cautiously, as Mycroft picks up Sherlock’s plate and fills it with some choice pieces of goose, stuffing and gravy, a slice of the salmon en croute and some parsnips and carrots. His brother also ladles him a helping of creamy soup, before serving himself. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft inclines his head at the thanks. His eyes look fondly at him, as he says honestly. “I must confess that I felt a little bit betrayed during your first visit after we went together with Mummy and Father, but no – I wasn’t mad. I could never be mad at you for that.” 

A sadness settles within Sherlock’s chest. How could he even consider visiting their sister after everything she had done? Is he insane? Why is he constantly doing these things that hurt his brother? 

They then devote some time to eating. For Mycroft, this is the first time he’s made a Christmas dinner from scratch, and he had loved the process – working together with his Lock. The result is delicious, although the goose is a tad dry and the salmon a little too well done. The honey-glazed veggies were exceptional. Yet, the imperfections make things just more _ real. _ Mycroft rather suspects that even if they had managed to burn half the dishes, it would still be the best Christmas meal he’s ever sat down to. 

Mia finally makes an appearance, her tail expressively swishing behind her. Mycroft had made her a tuna cake, with strips of roasted chicken and unseasoned carrots and parsnips as a special Christmas meal. She sniffs disdainfully at her bowl, before deciding to have some sips of water instead. Ah, cats – so contradictory. Mycroft sighs, knowing that this is all an act by this kitty-cat. 

When the main dishes are gone, they pull the crackers, causing Mia to jump with every ‘pop’. An assortment of luxury designer chocolate – milk chocolates, dark chocolates and truffles pop out, along with the usual flimsy crowns – one gold and one purple. Sherlock immediately puts on the purple crown, and walks over to Mycroft to put on his for him. Mycroft resists a bit, but Sherlock kisses him, and sneakily places the crown on his head when he is suitably distracted. 

“Menace.” Mycroft grumbles, but Sherlock suspects that the whole sequence has been a farce. 

“Your menace.” Sherlock grins, planting more kisses against Mycroft’s face, before grabbing one of their phones to take a selfie. “Now, smile.”

“Don’t you dare send it to Anthea.” 

“Yes, god forbid your personal assistant sees a picture of you tolerating Christmas with your menace.” Sherlock remarks dryly. 

“Lock…” Mycroft protests when Sherlock sits on his lap to take a more amorous selfie. 

“You were always the one saying that we should take as many pictures as we can, My.” Sherlock nuzzles his face against the skin exposed by Mycroft’s unbuttoned shirt collar. He reaches behind him for a chocolate, unwraps the truffle and puts it between his teeth. 

Mycroft’s eyes widen a tad when he realizes what Sherlock intends to do. But, he opens his mouth and accepts both the chocolate and the kiss. His brother’s hands are wrapped around his shoulders, and his own are caressing Sherlock’s back through his dark shirt. He moans slightly when Sherlock’s tongue slips into his mouth and touches his own milk-chocolate and caramel coated tongue. They indulge in a few more chocolates like this, their tongues entwining slowly and tenderly. Every kiss they partake in makes Mycroft wonder why he had thought this was a bad idea. Nothing had felt more right. When Sherlock slips off his lap to serve them both trifle, Mia – having finally eaten every morsel of her meal – leaps into Mycroft’s lap and purrs – rubbing her head against his belly.

“Your lap is quite popular.” Sherlock smiles teasingly at him, offering him a bowl of their homemade trifle. 

His heart had never felt so full. Mycroft takes the offering and the spoon, and Sherlock promptly pulls the nearby chair over so he could sit right next to him. There is something so beautifully domestic about this scene coloured by love, and Mycroft finds himself rather mortified when something wet seems to streak down his cheek. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock wraps his arms around big brother’s shoulders, letting his cheek brush against his. “What is –” 

He stops when he sees Mycroft’s eyes. He can’t quite describe what he sees, but these are certainly tears of happiness. 

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Lock.” Mycroft says quietly, his hand gently stroking the head of their kitty-cat. His voice grows stronger with every word. “An improbable dream that I have persisted in dreaming throughout the years despite all the self-loathing that went along with it. I dreamt of a comfortable home with a hearth-fire and a cat or a dog; of a certain someone to share my life with and love – and always – Sherlock – it was you!” 

Suddenly Mycroft isn’t the only person in the room with damp cheeks. Their vulnerable eyes tentatively meet again, and all sorts of unknown sensations rise within Sherlock. God. He had wanted to know what it felt like to be loved. Never had he imagined the magnitude of intensity behind his brother’s feelings. Words of all sorts promises seem to want to escape Sherlock’s throat – but he keeps them contained, knowing that he would rather figure out how to express his sentiments with meaningful action.


	18. Back to Baker Street

“Oh, Sherlock dear – you’ve grown so much!” Mrs. Hudson greets him with a surprisingly bone-crushing hug. “Merry Christmas!”

“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock, thrown slightly off-kilter by his former landlady’s burst of affection, takes a step back, divesting himself of his new trendy winter coat that Mycroft had bought him. He hangs it on the coat stand. It is evident that his landlady misses him. Greatly. He swallows somewhat awkwardly. “It’s… good to see you too.” 

“S’ock!” A toddler runs up to him, clad in a scarlet dress with sparkly snowflakes – her blonde curls bouncing. “Up, up!” She tugs incessantly at the dark denim of Sherlock’s trousers. 

So. This is Dr. Watson’s daughter. Rosamund. Rosie. His goddaughter. It’s a foreign concept to him. Damn. He had wanted nothing to do with children in his twenties – he is twenty-seven today. And he is now a godfather to someone! 

Unbelievable!

Vaguely, he remembers all the crying, the snotty noses and the nuisance of all of the wee ones from their awful family get-togethers that Mycroft had made him go to during his periods of sobriety. The only thing that had been worse had been all the cooing and fawning the women and even some of the men had done over those little blighters. Certainly he would never forget all the unsubtle hints and ‘jokes’ of when their side of the family will start producing their contribution of hellspawn. 

Never! Sherlock is sure.

But at her imploring eyes threatening to brim with tears, and at the expectant look of her father – who had just emerged from the stairs leading to the bedroom, Sherlock finds himself picking her up rather gingerly. Dr. Watson is looking at him oddly. At his orientally-inspired tan shawl that he had acquired from Nuremberg, his blue Christmas sweater and at his tresses – which he had put in a plait. Considering that he isn’t quite Sherlock of the present, he had thought that it would be a good idea that he dresses differently from how he had used to. 

“Hello Rosamund.” He says to the little girl – who is staring at him solemnly with her blue eyes. 

“S’ock!” She exclaims again, and then makes a grab for Sherlock’s hair – which he promptly stops her by gently taking her mischievous hand in his own. 

“No, Rosie.” Sherlock chides, feeling incredibly awkward while Dr. Watson steps forward to greet him with a ‘Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”. 

It’s hard to believe that he had lived here for a major chunk of his life. Away from his beloved brother – who currently had a bunch of errands that he needed to take care of – including another therapy session with his psychiatrist. 

Of course, there’s evidence of his old existence. His microscope, his lab equipment, the photographs scattered about on the mantel – the precious periodic table of his teenage years framed in his bedroom. His musical manuscripts and scribblings. There are even a few pictures of Dr. Watson and him together with Rosie sitting on one of their laps. No wonder Mycroft had thought… that there had been something deeper than friendship that tied the doctor and him together. But no… he isn’t attracted to the man in any way – the doctor doesn’t even fit the lineup of men that Sherlock had gazed at from afar in his, well, younger days. 

“Dr. Watson.” Sherlock says in reply, and he could still see the disappointment in his flatmate’s face. 

It didn’t seem right to call him ‘John’; it seemed too informal for a man that had spent a few hours trying to get him to wear clothes in that laboratory when he had been a toddler. Dr. Watson is a legitimate stranger to him aside from the few times they had met. He isn’t old enough to have access to these memories just yet. 

Mycroft refers to the doctor as such – and it’s very hard not to notice the dislike in his brother’s tone, made even more obvious by his attempts to make it come out neutral. From what he knows, his flatmate and he had been the best of friends. Thick as thieves at one point. Why does Mycroft dislike his flatmate? Besides the snarky and unkind behaviour that they had likely engaged in toward his brother in his old life… There seemed more to Mycroft’s disdain than that. Asking his brother directly wouldn’t help matters, Mycroft is a strong proponent of having Sherlock figure out where everything stands in his life, even though his brother hadn’t been able to avoid divulging his opinions on aspects of Sherlock’s old life completely. 

It isn’t just Mycroft’s feelings toward Dr. Watson that concerns him; there is a strained air between them – and it’s not simply because of Sherlock’s deaging. It seems that something had happened between his flatmate and himself… something that had fractured their relationship at some point. Not only because of the strain, but there also appears to be guilt emanating from Dr. Watson. Why? And what happened? Sherlock finds himself thinking as Dr. Watson finally texts someone on his phone, breaking their awkward standstill. 

“Santa come!” Rosie interrupts Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Indeed.” Sherlock turns his attention to his goddaughter. 

“I got pres – presen – present!” The little girl exclaims.

“What did you get?” Sherlock plays along – in lieu of something better to do. 

“Train! Choo-choo!” Rosie then scampers out of Sherlock’s lap and off the armchair that Sherlock had found himself sitting in.

She looks expectantly at him, as if wanting him to follow – and Sherlock sighs a little before he gets up, dropping his shawl on the armchair he had been sitting in. In the middle of the living room, there is a large playmat that hadn’t been there the last time Sherlock had been here. A colourful foam mat with letters and numbers. An elaborate train set with plastic tracks had been set up in the center. 

“Train!” Rosie repeats herself with excitement and starts pulling the train along by the locomotive after dropping down into a sitting position. “All a-board!” She calls out, before making appropriate engine noises.

Sherlock simply watches her, and wonders what happened to her mother. God. There are still so many things that he doesn’t know about his old life. Perhaps he should ask his brother about that. 

He could deduce that Dr. Watson has clearly been on a few dates, but nothing serious has happened. 

The door to the flat swings open, and instead of Mrs. Hudson, it is Greg. Oh fuck. Are they having a party? Like the ones that Greg had described for him before he had left for Germany? How ghastly! 

Suddenly he wishes he hadn’t left Ching Shih at home. 

Why didn’t he offer to stay at home and wait for Mycroft to return, rather than come here as he normally does? Perhaps he could have made his brother a nice dinner, and they could spend their evening cuddling in their festively decorated living room. 

The DI comes over and says hullo after exchanging greetings with Dr. Watson before joining Sherlock on the mat – and asks him about his trip to Germany.

How could he describe it? The days of his second coming of age had happened there. A time of revelation. Of growing up. Of learning… what really mattered to him. Discovering love. Having fun together. He then sighs. It’s nothing he could ever share with anyone. They’ve never talked about it – the illegal, incestuous nature of their love, but Sherlock has never been so aware of this fact until he’s sitting here now. No one could ever know about it. Amongst these people – who had supposedly been the closest to him before his accident. 

A pang of loneliness strikes his chest, but he quickly brushes it off. It won’t do to look heartsick. Greg isn’t completely hopeless at observation and deduction. Not a wise idea to arouse a copper’s suspicion, no matter how fond Greg is of him. 

He is after all, a man of the law. 

“Lovely.” Sherlock states. “It was quite fun.”

“I am glad.” Greg smiles slightly at him. Even fondly. “If anything else, Sherlock – I am happy that your brother and you have finally buried the hatchet. Life's too short to hold onto old resentments.”

Ah. If only the copper knew how deep that hatchet had been buried. “Perhaps.” Sherlock lets the word fall cautiously from his lips. “You found someone.” He deduces, steering the conversation to safer waters.

Greg laughs good-naturedly. “I don’t know about that. We had a few dates when you were gone, Sherlock –”

“You two spent Christmas together.” Sherlock adds. “And –” He looks cautiously around, making sure Dr. Watson is still engrossed in his texting. Likely trying to pick up a bird. “He has a child.”

“Yes. Blake. Cute kid. Slightly older than Rosie. Divorced recently. Wife was a cheater. Ironically he works as a divorce attorney. But even though such situations are his bread and butter –”

“It’s different to live it yourself.” 

“Exactly.” Greg casually knocks over a plastic tree onto Rosie’s train tracks. 

“Oh no!” Rosie looks at the tree with exaggerated dismay when her train comes close to the tree. “Delay!” She quickly clears the obstacle and looks at Greg with her intense blue eyes. “Bad man!”

Unexpectedly, Sherlock finds himself laughing along with the copper. There is something endearingly clever about this little girl. “Wait until the press hears about this.” 

Greg grins. “Yes, I spend my free time sabotaging trains –”

“Honestly, public transportation does a good job screwing things up themselves without –” 

“Well, Rosie seems to know all about delays. A true Londoner! So, Sherlock –” Greg is determined to flip the conversation back onto him. The copper’s eyes brim with amusement. “Find any cute boys recently?”

Sherlock barely manages to suppress the flush on his cheeks. “No.” 

“Shame. You will find someone, Sherlock. I rather like –”

“Was I really that awful the first time around?” Sherlock asks.

“No – well sometimes –”

There is a knock at the door, and both Sherlock and Greg turn around as Dr. Watson gets up to get the door. 

Oh dear god. It is a party! And it’s too late to leave! And this is Molly! He remembers who Molly is now – he had met her when she had started her fellowship in forensic pathology at Bart’s. 

She is dressed in a new cocktail dress with her face lightly made up and she passes a bottle of nice white wine to Dr. Watson who thanks her with a playful familiarity. 

God. What on earth possessed him to say ‘I love you’ to her? She had always had a crush on him from the very beginning, and he had done nothing to encourage it. In fact – he had taken advantage of it many times. Body parts. Access to bodies. Other favours unrelated to the sort she would have perhaps desired… Sherlock shudders at the thought. 

“Greg?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” The copper turns his attention back to him again.

“I was wondering if we could go over the case that caused my – well, accident at some point.” Sherlock requests. 

As he draws closer to his original age, he wants to better understand the circumstances that have deaged him. Mycroft’s secret government labs had found nothing suspicious on the samples that had been collected from the scene. Sherlock had gone to the physician again yesterday for his brother’s sake, and he’s healthy – although he had turned down a few tests that would have been purely for research purposes. As much as he loved experiments, he loathed the idea of being poked and prodded by other people more than it is necessary. 

“Of course. I will come over to your place one of these days, and we can have a chat. I am afraid very minimal progress has occurred since your little misadventure at Cambridge.” Greg says agreeably and gets up from the mat – intending to go greet the pathologist. 

* * *

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Molly finally manages to get him alone next to the Christmas tree that had been put up in one corner of the living room. “For months.”

Her voice is accusing, although Sherlock had noticed that she couldn’t stop staring at him. He isn’t sure if she’s staring because of his deaging (which apparently no one had told her about) or because of misplaced sentiment…

“That would imply effort on my part.” Sherlock shrugs casually, “And I haven’t taken on any cases recently – I… uh, needed a break.” 

Molly sips at her red wine before placing the glass on the mantel. She then blurts out. “God – you look so different.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, other than to look at the baubles hanging on the Christmas tree. Examining his own reflection on a shiny silver bulb. 

Molly seems to be gathering some sort of courage to say something.

“Why are you avoiding me, Sherlock?” Her voice is soft. “That’s not how people treat the one they say they love –”

“Molly.” Sherlock interjects. 

God. What the fuck is he supposed to say? He knows that his old self would have said something scathing to her, but he doesn’t quite have that same callous edge as he used to have. Even now, he has little knowledge about the circumstances that had caused him to say those three words, but he does know that it is connected with his sister’s sadistic games at Sherrinford. Perhaps sister dear had threatened the life of Molly and the objective of the game had been to make Molly say – ‘I love you’. That seemed cruel enough. 

As kindly as he could, he states what he has extrapolated as the truth. “I care about you as a  _ friend.  _ No more and no less. I was forced to say those words to you. You left me with no choice.”

“Then you should have just let things be.” Molly’s voice is cold. Hard. Only her eyes betray the anguish she feels. Tears are threatening to spill from her eyes. “Should have just let me die. Don’t you know how it feels? To love someone, and to never have them love you back? I tried you know – to stop – but –” She gives Sherlock one last hopeless look and turns around, burying her face in her hands – and strides toward the front door. 

“Molly.” Sherlock says rather helplessly. 

Dr. Watson had noticed the pathologist attempting to leave, and he springs up on his feet and immediately goes after her. They both exit the flat. 

Hm. There’s something there, Sherlock registers briefly in his mind before Greg comes over. 

“You alright there, Sherlock?” 

“I think so.” 

“I did warn her beforehand –”

“I know. You told me before I left for Berlin. And she seems to know about the death threat – said I should have just left things be.” Sherlock clenches his fists, looking downward at his shoes. “I-I couldn’t –”

“Let her die? No. You wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t be you otherwise –”

“What do you mean by that?” Sherlock turns to Greg sharply. 

“Let’s just say – that you would do anything for the ones you care about, Sherlock. When their lives are in peril.” 

“You aren’t telling me things, Greg.”

“You will know soon enough.” There’s a sad expression on the detective inspector’s face. “Those were not easy years, Sherlock. The ones that you haven’t reached yet.” Greg places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, just as the sound of the steps of Sherlock’s dearest make themselves heard from outside of the flat. “You did nothing wrong in this instance – Sherlock.”

“I know. I still feel like I wronged her in some manner.”

Greg only smiles, patting Sherlock’s shoulder. “She will get over it.”

“Perhaps. I wish she would just get over me. It will save everyone the trouble.” 

“The heart is a strange organ.” Greg offers. “You will see.”

At that moment, Mycroft had strode through the open flat door – resplendent in his three-piece suit. Sherlock watches his progress by examining the reflections off the baubles. 

It’s intriguing to Sherlock that Mycroft likes to go fully decked out in his battle armour whenever he has a meeting with his psychologist. Otherwise, since the start of his brother’s sabbatical, the formal clothes that Mycroft had preferred have gradually spent more time in the wardrobe than on him. But then again, it is a battle. To wrestle with all those nasty memories that their sister had left in her wake. And Sherlock knows how hard it is to be vulnerable. To be stripped of all of one’s mental defenses. 

Especially for them. 

Today clearly had been no different, Sherlock could tell by the deeply furrowed lines on Mycroft’s face that hadn’t been there before they had parted ways. It takes all his willpower to will himself to stand still, and not fling himself into his brother’s arms. To kiss him in front of Greg. To comfort him – to provide a temporary escape from the demons unleashed earlier in the day by the therapy session. 

He wants to go. 

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft nods at Greg. “Sherlock.” He adds in a softer voice.

“Myc.” Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back, figuring it was safer to put them out of range from his brother’s. “Can we go?” 

“Mr. Holmes. Merry Christmas!” Both Greg and Mrs. Hudson chime in, and Mrs. Hudson adds rather sadly. “So soon, Sherlock? I haven’t even brought out the dinner yet! Please do stay longer – both of you.” She looks imploringly at Sherlock before glancing at Mycroft.

Sherlock sighs. His confrontation with Molly had rather killed off any mood to be here. It’s not even his fault. Yet he feels like it is. 

What a concept. 

His actual twenty-seven year old self wouldn’t even spare a thought, but now it’s different now. Mycroft had for the most part repaired the damage that their sister had done to him. He’s no longer as detached to humanity as he had been. The hollowness that he had felt for a large chunk of his life is gone now and he has his brother back. In a way that his former self would have never imagined. 

“Maybe just a bit longer then.” 

“I will get dinner set up then.” Mrs. Hudson looks toward the flat door, where there is no sign of Molly or John returning. “Watch Rosie, would you?”

Greg nods – turning his attention to the little girl who is still engrossed in her new train set, as Sherlock tugs at Mycroft’s sleeve – in lieu of grabbing for his hand directly. “I want to show you something, Mycie.” 

His brother looks surprised at the use of this old nickname. Sherlock hasn’t used it at all since he had been a kid. Which as hard as it is to believe, a few weeks ago. But for him, it seems that a lifetime has passed since. Gently he guides Mycroft to his room, and seeing that Greg is still distracted by Rosamund, he shuts the door behind him. Flicking on the lamp, he bathes the room in a warm glow. 

“Hi Myc.” Sherlock immediately flings himself into Mycroft’s arms, burying his face against big brother’s shoulder. 

Mycroft sounds amused. “Hello Lock – you do know we only saw each other a handful of hours ago, right?” 

“God. Time is a relative concept, Mycie. You know that a day in your life is about a year in mine, right –” Sherlock kills off his own sentence by pulling on his brother’s tie and kissing him senseless. 

* * *

When their kiss grows too heated, Mycroft pulls away – stopping before they could make a mess of themselves. Sherlock makes a quiet noise of disappointment, but doesn’t complain. This feels so illicit, having baby brother in his arms while a copper is playing with Dr. Watson’s little girl just beyond the closed door. It’s surreal to be here, in Sherlock’s personal chamber. He can’t recall when he had last been in here. And as… little brother’s lover? Granted they haven’t done anything except snog like teenagers – and Mycroft intends to keep it that way until Sherlock had all the information about his life. 

“You didn’t bring me in here just to kiss, did you?” Mycroft takes a step back, but he still has his arms resting lightly around Sherlock’s torso. 

“No, but… I didn’t know how to behave around you. And… I don’t want us to be like how we used to be. At each other’s throats.” Sherlock says – his eyes sad. “I just realized, you know before you came – My, that we can’t – we can’t…”

“I know, Lockie.” Mycroft uses his brother’s childhood nickname, and Sherlock doesn’t object. “It was one of many reasons – why I thought it was a bad idea. I didn’t want you to be in a relationship that you would have to spend the rest of your life hiding, dearest mine.”

“I would rather have you than not at all.” Sherlock replies firmly. “There’s no one else I would ever care about like this. Not Dr. Watson. Not Molly. Not anyone else. And I will keep telling you this until you believe me.” 

Sherlock escapes from Mycroft’s loose hold around him, and goes to his desk. He opens the drawer and pulls out a sheaf of papers. The truth is that Sherlock hadn’t actually finished reading all of the entries before Mrs. Hudson had interrupted him the first time around, but he is sure that they would display his care and worry toward his brother. 

Mycroft is bewildered when Sherlock presents them to him. 

“Just read them, Mycroft. I wrote them before the accident.” 

Taking the papers, Mycroft sits down on Sherlock’s bed, and begins to read. 


	19. My frozen heart

Mycroft doesn’t know what to expect from these papers. 

In Sherlock’s untidy scrawl, they reveal Sherlock’s concern before the deaging incident occurred. Sherlock’s attempts to communicate with him; his attempts to find him. 

The advantages of an extensive surveillance system that had allowed Mycroft to keep tabs on baby brother over the years had allowed him to avoid Sherlock during those horrid weeks after Sherrinford. His poor Lock had even called Mummy. 

Then there are Sherlock’s newfound memories. Mycroft could tell that Sherlock had desperately wanted to talk to someone about them. To verify them. To relive the good times. To process the cruelties that the world had dished out. His brother must have felt overwhelmed to the point where he had to commit his thoughts to paper. 

***

_ Mycroft. I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize that we had been so close. I forgot. How could I have forgotten? … _

_ I am remembering. You never forgot. You never tried to undo what I did to myself. You thought that it would hurt me more to know. So you carried the burden. Alone. Caring is not an advantage, you said to me years ago. I’ve always wondered what cruelty had befallen you to say such a thing. … _

_ But now I know.  _

_ I see. _

_ That you’ve always cared.  _

***

Mycroft closes his eyes for a brief moment. Yes, his deaged brother and himself had dealt with the trauma of the early days, but to see Sherlock write out this realization as his original older self hits him hard. Like a blow to the chest that takes his breath away. 

Sherlock had remembered. And he had cared. Mycroft had denied them this. 

This chance to reconcile. 

_ I would pay any price. _

Sherlock had written. 

To erase the bad-blood between them. The insults. The pettiness. The pranks. All of it. In a way, it had come true – although the memories of such dark times would still linger. 

But then again – they should.

***

_ Mycroft.  _

_ There is something fishy about this case. Strange. I don’t know quite what it is. But there is something. Something about the head technician that had run away after the murder of her boss. And the post-doctoral fellow. I think he knows something crucial.  _

_ We will meet today. At Cambridge. _

_ Yet. I feel uneasy. Call it a premonition, but I feel like something is going to happen to me. Like a pirate about to sail into uncharted waters where something is lurking beneath the calm-appearing seas.  _

_ This laboratory studies the telomere; of which you would know, brother, are repeated sequences of DNA sitting at the tips of each one of our chromosomes. As they shorten with each round of DNA replication during cellular division, we age. Physically.  _

_ But, no.  _

_ That’s not quite the point I am trying to get at. What I am trying to say is that the individuals involved in this case are interested in slowing down the aging process. Perhaps you might call me crazy but I have the hunch that they’ve discovered something big. Huge.  _

_ And this I feel is the crux of the issue.  _

_ The motive for murder. _

_ Now that that is out of the way, I will move on to what I wanted to converse with you about. I will write in cipher here. I don’t care if anyone else ever finds this page, because only you would be able to decode it.  _

_ That said: John, Mrs. Hudson, if you find this and I am gone from this world, please give all of these papers to my brother.  _

_ Yes. I feel this strongly about my premonition. _

_ \-- _

_ Brother. I will speak frankly.  _

_ Sherrinford.  _

_ The way you looked at me. Your eyes. I’d… never seen them like this. They shined with some sort of emotion that is alien to me. You were willing to die for me. To even die for John. To save me the heartbreak of losing yet another friend at the hands of the East Wind.  _

_ I have to admit that this confused me greatly at the beginning. The emotions that I witnessed. Not your actions. But over the last few weeks, I think I might have arrived at a solution with the memories that I’ve slowly been reacquainting myself with.  _

_ We were close, weren’t we? When we were young. Trauma might have made me forget what you were to me, but you never did. You let me forget, brother dear.  _

_ But alas, you had to, didn’t you?  _

_ Not for my sake, but for yours? _

_ Does Great-Aunt Muriel’s funeral ring any bells, Mycroft? _

_ You changed. I remember how you looked at me. How closed off you were when my eyes met yours. How cold they were! It was hateful. You were the only person left that I had ever cared about, Mycroft.  _

_ And you left me.  _

_ Because you loved me.  _

_ Not how you did when we were children. _

_ But in the way that two men can love each other.  _

_ ‘Your loss would break my heart.’ You said to me not too long ago.  _

_ You meant it literally. You were drugged, yes, but perhaps you are one of those who gets more honest when under the influence. And you despaired every time I seemed to have reached a new depth, be it drugs, my predilection for chasing unhinged psychopaths or even the day where I had ended CAM. I always thought that you had despised having a younger brother that was such a loose cannon. A blemish to your otherwise perfect life.  _

_ But I see now that this isn’t true either.  _

_ You were afraid that I would end up somewhere that you couldn’t follow. That you couldn’t, for all the power bestowed upon you by King and Country, save me from myself.  _

_ I guess I better preemptively say that I am sorry.  _

_ I’ve failed you, Mycroft. I am sorry that I couldn’t break through to you in time. I am sorry that I spent this limited resource visiting our sister, when I realize that she only wanted revenge for how much I adored you as a child. The fact that you love me, and that she tried to game it so that I would be the one to end you – she would see it as the perfect conclusion of what she had put into motion so long ago.  _

_ And now I am sorry that this case might be the end of the line.  _

_ I do love you, brother mine.  _

_ I only wish that things were different.  _

_ And so. _

_ Goodnight. _

***

God. 

Mycroft stands up from the bed. Inhaling deeply, he folds the papers horizontally and places them in a hidden pocket within his suit jacket as he walks to the window. Regret fills within him. That  _ Goodnight _ cuts into his soul. Sherlock loved him. Sherlock had deduced Mycroft’s greatest secret. Sherlock had wanted to help him. And now, he would never get to meet this Sherlock. Of course, he had his Sherlock – this lovable Lock that had grown up again, but it isn’t the same. 

Sherlock senses his mood. His hand reaches for Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Did you read all of this, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“No. Not the last few.” Sherlock admits. “Why? What’s wrong – My?” His eyes are concerned. 

Even a bit… frightened. 

“No. It’s nothing wrong you did. Sherlock. I need to be alone.” Mycroft says.

“Mycroft –” 

At the agony in his brother’s eyes, Mycroft adds. “You told me you loved me. I am sorry, Lock – but I feel like I need to –”

“Grieve.” Sherlock finishes Mycroft’s sentence quietly.

Of course. 

Fuck. 

Sherlock should have read the entire thing before giving it to Mycroft. He isn’t the same Sherlock that had written those words. That Sherlock would have dealt with things differently. He has all the memories of his previous twenty-seven year old self, but he hasn’t lived it. Not in the way his original self would have. 

Could it be possible to be jealous of a previous incarnation of oneself? 

Fucking bloody fuck. 

Sherlock takes one last look at his brother before straightening himself out – walking out of his bedroom to give Mycroft his requested space. Feeling rather like his own heart had been left in tatters. 

* * *

“Hey, Sherlock – where are you –” 

Greg interrupts him as Sherlock grabs his shawl and heads out toward the door. 

“I need some space, Greg – I…” Sherlock shakes his head. “I can’t be here.” 

And with that, Sherlock strides past the threshold and walks down the seventeen steps. He can hear Mrs. Hudson moving about her own flat, preparing a dinner he will not have. Opening the front door, he heads outside – greeted by a sharp bite of the frigid late evening wind. 

He relishes it. The discomfort. 

There are a few people out on the lamp-lit streets, taking a smoke or purposefully walking somewhere. It’s too cold otherwise to linger. 

He doesn’t even know where to go. Home? He could use a lapful of Ching Shih, who always – despite her aloof behaviour – knows when Sherlock needs comforting. He could hail a cab, but he doesn’t feel like it. He elects to walk. It’s strange. He instinctively knows the shortest route to Mycroft’s house from here, even though he hasn’t walked it in this lifetime. If he digs further, he has a beautifully constructed map of central London in his brain. Maybe good enough to pass The Knowledge – the most notoriously difficult test that every London cabbie needs to take. 

His brain is filled with founts of knowledge that he is barely aware of. Resources that he mindlessly accesses on a day-to-day basis. It’s overwhelming when combined with the torrents of memory that seem to make itself known every day. No. He’s not the same Sherlock as he was months ago. 

He could hardly blame Mycroft for wanting to be alone. What’s more pressing for him is the question of whether or not Mycroft wants to continue… whatever it is that they’ve started? Oh god. Sherlock wipes away a tear with his cold hand. Fuck. He had left his coat back at Baker Street. And his phone. And his wallet. 

No. He doesn’t want to go back either.

So he walks onward. 

* * *

Grieve. 

That had been Sherlock’s last word to him before he had walked out of the room. His room. Old Sherlock’s room. Mycroft looks around the space – almost feeling the presence of his younger brother. The one who had been erased(?) with whatever had happened back at Cambridge. He wonders what Sherlock feels when he’s in here. Surrounded by the belongings of his older self. A self that he has no memories of being. 

And it is grief. 

Why had he not met up with Sherlock once during those weeks? When before Sherrinford, he would have died to have his brother’s concern or rather to meet up with his brother in a more casual fashion. Without the pretense of cases that his agents could have solved or dealing with family matters that usually annoyed them both to no end. And brought them so much agony. 

Oh. But he knew the answer. He had been caught up in his own suffering that he hadn’t seen what had been going on with Sherlock. And now… this is a Sherlock he would never see again. Never talk to again. 

He’s… gone. 

His brave Lock whose wits had saved them all at Sherrinford. His smart Lock who had put all the pieces together. His caring Lock – who had spent so much energy trying to chase him down, but when Mycroft didn’t want to be found, it would have been an impossible task. 

_ Damn it, Mycroft. Snap out of it. _

He says angrily to himself. Wallowing. He’s doing it again. 

The pain on his brother’s face before he had left the room. God. Where is Sherlock now? He walks out of the room to find the detective inspector still playing with Dr. Watson’s spawn, and there is no sign of Sherlock. The shawl is gone, but his brother’s coat still hangs on the coat stand. 

Well… shit.

“Where is Sherlock?” He asks.

“I think – he walked out.” Lestrade says.

“Without his coat? His phone?” Mycroft sighs with exasperation as Sherlock’s phone begins to ring from the pocket of his forgotten coat after he attempts to make a call. “In this weather? He’s going to freeze!” 

He calls his driver who is nearby, having just dropped Mycroft off no more than half an hour ago. 

Bloody hell. Where could have Sherlock gone in this weather? On his two feet? Home? Idiot boy! 

He has no way of tracking Sherlock now, and it bothers him. Without his phone on his person, Mycroft cannot locate him by satellite. Maybe he ought to microchip his brother. He takes his brother’s coat and notices little brother has left behind his wallet too. 

Hell. 

Grabbing his own coat, he walks out of Baker Street. 

* * *

Mycroft has his driver drive around, following the streets that Sherlock could have taken if his intended destination had been home. He has his eyes fixated on the sidewalks, looking to and fro for some sign of his little brother. 

But there is none. 

God. Why did he tell Sherlock to leave the room? His mind goes to drugs. God. Sherlock isn’t out somewhere trying to score a hit, is he? No. He doesn’t think this version of Lock would do so. It’s too fucking cold for that. There is hardly anyone out on the streets now. All traces of the sun had disappeared, and Mycroft can hear the wind whipping violently against the Jag as it cruises the streets. It is sleeting, the precipitation getting heavier as each minute passes by. 

Sherlock. Where are you? The familiar fear coils tightly in his stomach. He might have lost his old Sherlock, but it would kill him to lose this Lockie too. 

His Lockie. 

This gentler, affectionate version who looks at Mycroft as if he was the moon. Or sometimes a gingernut. Mycroft has to smile somewhat at that thought. The one who loves cats. The one who had grown up with him and known him all his life. 

Oh a whim, he has his driver stop at a nearby park which he knew serves as a shortcut to his house. 

His driver – James – exclaims with horror when Mycroft decides to get off. “Sir! You can barely see out there!”

At Mycroft’s stubborn look, James sighs and unlocks the door. “I will be here. Send a text if you need me again, sir.” 

* * *

So cold. Sherlock is hugging his sodden shawl around his torso as he braves his way through the park. He’s almost there. And then what? He had left his bloody keys in his coat. Fuck. He’s doomed. He had already lost feeling in all of his extremities, and his legs are just automatically moving the rest of his transport(?). 

He totally did not think this through. 

Things clearly haven’t changed. He is still an impulsive creature that reacts mindlessly when hurt. The sleet had started minutes after he had left his flat, and had insidiously gotten worse. God. He doesn’t want to die out here. 

“Sherlock!” 

Maybe he is dying. Because he can vaguely hear Mycroft’s voice in his head. 

“Sherlock!” 

Or maybe not. He stops, and turns around – where he can make out the shape of a man – his brother – approaching him with an umbrella blocking most of the precipitation from his face. Is this a mirage? Sherlock wonders – but then Mycroft is in front of him.

“You idiot! How could you walk out without your coat! Your phone! You silly boy. God. You are freezing. Come on – let’s go home.” 

Sherlock wants to collapse in relief in Mycroft’s arms and sob, but he doesn’t – knowing that he will get hypothermia (if he hasn’t already) if he doesn’t get warmed up and dry. Instead his hand finds its way in Mycroft’s gloved hand. 

* * *

When they finally arrive home, Mycroft immediately starts removing Sherlock’s sodden clothes, leaving them on the floor in a wet mess. 

Fuck. Sherlock’s never been so cold. After his clothes had been removed, his brother picks him up and takes him to the nearest bedroom. Mycroft keeps him talking – asking him inane questions about his name, his favourite colour, the name of his cat, his favourite place in the world – just superficial things to keep Sherlock somewhat awake. 

Sherlock knows if he can’t answer any of those, Mycroft is going to take him straight to the A&E which is the last place he wants to be in. His brother puts him down and grabs a towel from the adjoining loo to wipe him dry, before laying him down slowly on the bed. 

Then come the blankets. Mycroft layers them one on top of the other. 

“What do you want to drink? Soup? Hot chocolate?”

“Anything.” Sherlock murmurs, his teeth still chattering. 

“Okay. Stay awake for me, little brother.” Mycroft gently caresses Sherlock’s hair and kisses his cheek before he leaves, and it makes Sherlock want to cry at the sweetness of it all. “I will be back.” 

“I will try.” Sherlock watches as Mycroft leaves them room and muses that this is the first time Mycroft has ever seen him completely naked as an adult.

* * *

Mycroft comes back minutes later with chocolate. The bed dips as big brother sits on it, right next to Sherlock. He had removed his outerwear and is now only wearing his trousers and shirt. Sherlock can also smell a hint of the Korean radish and beef stew that had been their dinner yesterday. Mycroft had reheated it to bring up his body temperature. And of course, for their dinner. His brother feeds several squares of chocolate to Sherlock, who lets the treats melt in his mouth before swallowing. 

“My… Mycie?” Sherlock looks up at him, desperately needing a question answered.

“Yes, Lock?” 

“Do you… do you… still –”

His brother smiles at him. There is a little bit of sadness on his face, but he says quietly. “Of course, Lock – it just caught me off guard you know. Realizing that I would never talk to the old version of you again. That I won’t get to know him in that way. The way that we know each other now. As – strange as that may sound.”

“No-no, I-I understand.” Sherlock replies. “I knew that old me cared, but I didn’t know that he left a… confession. My?” His brother looks at him again. “I know I won’t be the same person as him a few weeks from now…”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” Mycroft’s hand has found its way into Sherlock’s slightly wet hair. His fingers undo the plait that Sherlock had put it in earlier and tenderly combs out the tangled curls. “I love you, Lockie. I do. Just… don’t do such stupid things –”

“I don’t think I can promise that and keep it.” Sherlock smiles weakly. “You are the smart one after all, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighs, but he doesn’t argue. Sherlock doesn’t know whether or not to feel offended. But he leans into his brother’s gentle touch, happy that Mycroft still loves him in the way that matters. 


End file.
